All We Became
by CminorAdagio
Summary: Sequel to All We Were and All We Are: When their blissful new life is put under threat, Harry and Ruth are left fighting for their family's lives. With the dark underbelly of a terrorist circuit revealed much closer to home, they find themselves doubting whether they can ever truly put the past, and MI-5, behind them.
1. Prologue

**Welcome to the sequel of All We Were And All We Are. I'm going to start with this chapter for now and see if people think it's worth continuing. Hope you enjoy.**

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"We are... too good at that."

Up until that point, all had been silent save for the sounds of heaving breaths alongside still racing heartbeats. The room's two sated occupants lay cuddled together amongst the chaos of bedclothes. Their full hearts, racing minds and sweaty bodies were entwined in a way that very much embodied the overwhelming love they felt for one another. A picture of togetherness, tenderness and total contentment that could only have been attained by the battles they had fought and conquered side by side.

They were still joined, his length slowly softening inside her, yet neither lover moved to part, each unwilling to break their bubble of breathtaking bliss, each still basking in the glorious heat of their afterglow. She rested against his chest, cradled in his warm embrace, his hand skimming gently up and down her naked side in a bid to soothe the tremors still thrumming through her. She fiddled absently with his greying chest hair and pressed a tender kiss next to his heart. He returned the gesture, dropping a sweet kiss to her temple. She blinked up at him with a lazy smile and soft, ocean-blue eyes, only to find her expression mirrored in his hazel orbs.

Their cocoon of love, safety and semi-darkness was threatened by the sun as it started its slow ascent behind the curtains. A small, seashell-endowed lamp illuminated a battered bedside clock which, as further minutes ticked by, impressed upon them just how little time they had left. His hand moved to clasp hers, their fingers ducking and bowing expertly together; their shadows dancing a well-practiced ballet against the magnolia walls. With her free hand, she traced a soothing hand over the angry pink scar across his shoulder, earning a small moan of satisfaction. He tightened his own free arm around his love, shifting her beautiful chestnut hair behind her ear so that he could place another tender kiss against her temple.

"Mmmm, scratch that," he hummed blissfully. "We are _amazing _at that."

"Cocky much?" she teased, propping herself up on a shaky elbow to see him. It was a slightly awkward positioning, but her other hand was still dancing with his and she really didn't want to let go.

"Not really," he bantered back, still revelling in their post-sex euphoria. "I'm just stating the truth. Plus it would only be cocky if I was talking about myself. And it takes two to tango, Ruth. Our lovemaking would be nothing if it wasn't for my beautiful... incredible... talented... _beautiful _partner."

"You already said beautiful," Ruth pointed out, ducking her head to hide the bashful blush tinting her cheeks.

She had always done that; had never been able to take a compliment. Even now, after all their years together, some things never changed. He was conflicted. In one way, he wished she would have the confidence to allow herself a little bit of pride when praised. God knows, she deserved it. But in another, he knew it was just one of her many endearing qualities – and it made him love her all the more.

"It's because you're twice as beautiful as anyone else," he declared.

Ruth gasped in mock awe, a large grin shaping her lips, "_Wow! _How long did it take you to come up with _that_ one?"

"About two minutes."

"Impressive."

"I thought so," he smirked smugly. "I foresaw that you'd call me cocky and thought I ought to redeem myself by presenting a modest counter argument."

"Oh, I see. How clever of you. So you didn't mean it then? The whole 'beautiful' thing?" she challenged, and although she raised a testy eyebrow, the twinkle in her eye gave her away completely.

"Oh, I meant it. _Absolutely_. I'm just also a cocky bastard. It's a good job I have a beautiful woman in my arms to help me see the error of my ways."

"_You_, Harry Pearce, are a flatterer." Ruth muttered, but her lingering smile betrayed that she wasn't ungrateful.

"Is the flattery working?"

"Depends on what your goal is."

She rested her chin playfully on her hand and set it down against his chest – just enough that they could see each other, but not so much that she was crushing him. His heartbeat drummed insistently against her palm, lulling her further into that cocoon of love and safety. It was a tune she knew so well by now, but was certain she would never, _ever_ tire of. Of its own accord, her heart immediately strived to match his rhythm, desperate to become one.

Harry gazed back at her, drinking in every glorious bit of this magnificent creature: her radiant smile, her debauched lips, her creamy skin, her exquisite curves, the generous swell of her breasts, the graceful arc of her spine, and, of course, the stunning blue eyes that still, to this day, seemed to penetrate deep into his very soul. _By God, _she was beautiful_._

"Another round?" he purred.

Ruth laughed lightly and his heart skipped a beat. The sound of her laugh would never get old. Never. It was rich and melodious, and so full of joy that he treasured it each and every time. She had had so little cause to laugh in their past life. To hear it so frequently now was an unspeakable privilege.

"If you've got a third round in you, Harry, then I'm really very impressed because I don't think I can move for about a week."

He barked out a laugh and kissed her hair in defeat, "Fair enough. You win. I don't think I could either, to be honest. I'm getting too old. Too past it."

Part of what he said was in jest, but there was a hint of genuine self-recrimination in his tone that tugged at Ruth's heartstrings. She watched him for a moment, then silently slipped her hand from his, unsheathing him with a small mewl. Harry winced, feeling quite bereft without her heavenly heat. However, she used her newfound freedom to propel herself up onto her knees to straddle his thighs, briefly creating a delicious friction between their sexes. Her hands caressed his shoulders, tenderly kneading the scarred flesh and overriding their horrific origins with a touch altogether gentler, fonder, sweeter. Then, before he knew quite what was happening, she was kissing him; deep sensual kisses that left him with absolutely no doubt how much she adored him, how much she wanted him. When she sensed his need for air, she broke away, continuing her mission up column of his throat, along his cheekbones, his eyelids, his nose, his forehead... _everywhere_. She was worshipping him with such devotion, such unadulterated passion that for a moment, his insecurities were lost, replaced by sea of sublime sensation.

"Not old," she whispered, the brush of her lips against his ear sending a chill of arousal to his belly. "And never past it. _Never_. You're Harry Pearce. The kindest, gentlest, bravest and yes, the most handsome man I've ever known."

Harry sighed and stroked a single finger along her nose, marvelling at how he had become so unbelievably lucky. She wrinkled it adorably and moved to clasp his hand once more. Their fingers slotted neatly together, two parts of the same puzzle, clearly built to hold one another.

"Oh, sweetheart. Why do you put yourself through this, hmm? Stick with me, I mean." He elaborated at her quizzical look. "You're miles ahead of me in every league."

Ruth frowned, her grip on his hand tightening. Neither was quite sure if the other was serious now.

"I think my opportunity to run off with that Puerto Rican pool boy has long since passed. _You'll _have to do." she deadpanned softly.

Harry's good-natured smile wasn't all that convincing. _He_ knew she was joking, and _she_ knew she was joking, and the two of them would never dream of being apart. Yet insecurities were a major part of their past and an unfortunate, well-ingrained part of them.

Ruth bit her lip, and glanced down, "I could ask you the same question in regards to me, Harry. You've had a lot to put up with. I've not been easy."

He could have lied; could have contradicted her and said that everything had been rose-tinted and wonderful; that he wouldn't take away any of it. But he and Ruth had sworn away the lies. They had experienced the stain such untruths could smear, and wanted no further truck with them. The simple life they had built for themselves had admittedly been crafted from lies, for they had always been made of secrets. But those lies were merely necessary for their survival; used only with others to keep them safe – and never against each other. There were some elements of their journey he would have taken away. Of course there were. Most certainly Ruth's ordeal over six years prior, and the pain, anxiety and trauma that had haunted her – still did on occasion, though she stubbornly fought those demons each and every day. He couldn't be more proud of her if he tried, and vice versa. Things had been hard for them both, but nothing worth having was ever easy. Exploring a brave new world, a new relationship, a new family, a new purpose, a new self and all in several new countries had been a battle neither of them had been prepared for upon leaving England. However, they had had each other and when all was said and done, _that_ was what mattered. Although they had been divided in the past, they had conquered. They were more together now than they had ever been, and in every possible way.

"_You _were worth it," he emphasised, stroking up and down her arm, pressing a tender kiss to her shoulder blade.

"Then you have my answer right there." Ruth said earnestly, eyes gleaming in the dim lamplight. "You've always been worth it, Harry. Always been... _it_.

She paused, her eyebrows furrowing as she thought carefully of what to say – a most Ruth-ish thing to do. He knew from experience that it was no use interrupting her when she was trying to express what she found difficult. So he waited, his hand resuming its stroking, this time brushing gently down the subtle knobs of her spine.

"Doubt thou the stars are fire," she eventually murmured. "Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar. But never doubt I love."

Harry smiled softly. Trust her to grasp the words she was searching for from within literature. "Hamlet." he acknowledged, and she nodded.

Her slight frown indicated further thought, but after a few more seconds, she seemed to have found what was in her heart.

"What we've been through together..." she whispered, and the fact that she met his eyes as she spoke was a testament to how much she wanted him to know the truth of her words. "The way you've stood by me and held me patiently, without complaint when I've cried. Or... or loved me, despite the times I've been an awful, moody cow. Or calmed me down when I start to panic, or even just made me laugh. I honestly can't describe how much that means to me. You're kind and gentle... moral and courageous... honourable and so full of goodness. And the way you are with Lottie makes my heart just... just all at once want to jump for joy, melt and... and... I don't know... _explode_. Yes, explode. With love, I mean. Always with love. Because I do love you Harry Pearce. Every complex, wonderful bit of you. And I always will."

There was a slight pause in which Harry, so overcome by emotion, struggled to find a response. They had spent six years together; had known and danced around each other for longer, and she could still strike him dumb. Certainly, six years ago, Ruth would not have had the confidence to be so forthright. He supposed it just went to show how much they had grown together. When he couldn't find the comeback he was searching for, he tried to find something else to say. Anything else. A sentence... a phrase... a single word. And when he couldn't even do that; when all that was left was a betraying wetness in his eyes, Harry instead leaned down and captured her lips in a searing kiss, hoping she understood what he was trying to say. '_I love you too_. _So, so, _so _much. More than I can ever say'. _

She kissed back with equal fervour, granting his tongue access as it nudged gently against hers. He felt her squeeze his left bicep and knew immediately that she had understood. But as their mouths found a slow and sensual rhythm, their bodies started to react, and both realised that they would have to stop or Round Three really would become a reality. They wouldn't have minded, of course, but they knew that they hadn't the time. Even so, it took them a while to break apart. When they finally did, they were panting again, chests heaving, minds spinning, hearts beating the same allegro rhythm. They rested their foreheads together, taking a few leisurely minutes to share breaths.

Coherent thought gradually returned, and with it came the realisation that their previously sweat-slicked bodies had long since cooled, leaving their skin to grow slowly chilled to the touch. Harry reached down and tucked the duvet snugly around them both, then drew Ruth back into the shelter of his arms, pressing her to him as close as was humanly possible. She ended up lying draped across him like a blanket, her breasts cradled against his chest, her head nestled under his chin, their legs tangled together. Harry buried his nose in her soft hair, revelling in its scent. She smelled of sweet summer berries and sex; entirely too scrumptious for words. They stayed like that for a good long while, tracing idle patterns across each other's skin as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky.

"What time is it?" he asked eventually.

Ruth lifted her head to catch a glimpse of the clock. "Nearly quarter to six."

Harry groaned, shut his eyes and burrowed further into her embrace. Ruth chuckled, rubbing a soothing hand over his chest. Her partner was a man of many contradictions. For the most part he was the beacon of strength in their relationship; strong and stable; perfectly imperfect; the last weathered pillar standing resolute in spite of everything that had been thrown at him. An ex- knight of the realm and former Head of Section D, to most, Harry Pearce had been fierce, no-nonsense man who took no prisoners. But then there was _her_ Harry: sweet and gentle, thoughtful and attentive, and at times such a petulant child. And she loved him dearly for it.

"Harry, we do have to get up soon."

"No," he pouted, making her giggle.

"Harry, I already have a six-year-old to look after. I don't need a four-year-old too."

He groaned, "Christ, a six-year-old. I swear it was only yesterday she turned five."

"No, that was a whole year ago." Ruth informed him, placing her palms on the mattress to lever herself up. If she could not drag Harry from his 'hiding place', she would instead drag the hiding place from Harry. He tutted in mock annoyance, but her tactics worked and he opened his eyes to face the reality of the day.

"Bugger. Don't tell me," he murmured miserably. "Tomorrow she'll be a teenager."

"I hope not," Ruth admitted. She sat up a little more, and the blankets slipped from her shoulders, allowing Harry a rather lovely view of her breasts. Noticing his distraction, she rolled her eyes and lifted his chin back up to her face. "I'm not ready for a teenager."

"Well, _I'm_ not ready for a _six-year-old_." Harry declared, flopping his hand dramatically back against the pillows. "I really am old, Ruth. You'd better put me out to pasture."

"How many times do I have to say this? You're not_ old_."

"I'm sixty-three, and I have a six-year-old daughter."

"A beautiful, kind, intelligent six-year-old daughter, who absolutely adores you." Ruth reminded him, smoothing a hand over his heart.

"And I her. I wouldn't change her for the world." He traced her cheek gently with the pad of his thumb. "You really have done an _incredible_ job with her, Ruth."

"_We_ have. _Both_ of us. _Together_." Ruth corrected, before adding with such naked vulnerability that it made his heart clench. "We wouldn't have got very far without _you_, Harry."

He smiled, "Well that's lucky then, because I wouldn't have got very far without _you_." His expression turned slightly wistful. "I suppose I just wish I was a little younger."

"Don't we all. I'm not exactly in my mid-twenties. So if you think _you_ need putting out to pasture, then I think _I'd _better go too." Ruth murmured, knowing that she hadn't been in the spring of youth herself when she had Charlotte – or rather, 'Lottie', as they had now come to call her. But Lottie had been their little miracle; their guiding star amidst a terrifying time in both their lives. She wouldn't change her for anything.

"Sweetheart, I didn't mean – "

"No, not 'Sweetheart, I didn't mean' anything." She said firmly, and Harry was powerless to stop the thrill of arousal that flared up in response to Ruth's assertive side. Ruth, for her part, hated how this dear man would sometimes worry that he was not enough for his family. Not that she wasn't thankful that he felt _comfortable _enough to tell her his worries – it had taken a lot of work over the years for them to learn to open up to each other. It just saddened her to see this usually confident man become so weighed down by the occasional insecurity. "Harry, we go out to pasture together or we don't go out at all. I'm not leaving you. And that's that."

Harry shook his head, and caressed her kiss-swollen lips with his. Every time he didn't think he could love her more, she proved him wrong. In this case, it was due to her impression of a stubborn old mule. Except less of the old, he reminded himself. She had won that argument.

"She'll be up in a few minutes." Ruth sighed, reluctantly parting before things got more heated. She planted another quick peck on his lips and climbed off him. "We'd better get dressed. A shower will have to wait."

The bedclothes fell away from her, making visible her deliciously bare body. Harry tried not to shoot her a sultry glance, for he knew how shy, almost ashamed, she could be of her body when viewed in close scrutiny – even now and even by him. It broke his heart that she couldn't see just how gorgeous she really was. She could light up a room with her smile alone. Yet those bastards had made her feel so uncomfortable, so vulnerable and uncertain within herself. He and Ruth had overcome the massive hurdle of sex and physical intimacy years ago, and day by day, side by side they had managed to unpick the damage that had been done by her rapists. Gradually she had learnt to trust him with her body as well as her heart, and he intended _never_ to abuse that privilege. The physical tells of her ordeal would never go away. There were a series of faint white scars marring Ruth's ribs, breasts and thighs that would forever remind them of what had happened. However, those, along with her caesarean scar, were a testament to her unremitting strength; a symbol of how much she had overcome. Lovemaking with his beloved Ruth was an experience like no other. There was a connection between them that transcended the merely physical, and entered deep into their very souls. All other partners Harry had ever been with simply paled in comparison. He had just never been able to convince _Ruth_ of that fact.

He watched her get dressed for a few seconds, then, feeling really rather destitute without her presence in bed beside him, decided that he too had better make a move. He rolled out from under the duvet and went in search of his clothes, finding them folded neatly over a nearby chair. Ruth must have that the night before.

_He _certainly wouldn't have done it. He had been in too much of a mood, having had a good growl at some brash, loud-mouthed, twenty-something American tourists, who felt it necessary to keep the entire Caravan Park awake with their late night parties, foul language verbal abuse. They had been exceptionally rude when he asked them to tone things down, so he had said a few choice words in a return. In the end, he had told them with a certain degree of menace in his voice, to move on. Apparently, he had not lost his touch when dealing with the troublesome cousins. They had seen the dangerous glint in his eye, promptly packed up, paid the week's rent, and left – even picking up their litter along the way. In some respects, being in charge of a small-town Caravan Park was not light-years away from commanding Section D.

It had been an odd life choice for him and Ruth, and certainly not one he had envisioned upon leaving England. At first, they travelled around Europe, trying to find their niche. However, they had nearly run paths with a number of dangerous individuals from their past. MI6 were rife all over Europe, and so were elite terrorist cells. Plus, Lottie and Ruth had been quite fragile, and he hadn't wanted to risk putting either of them in any further danger. So they had moved on.

Eventually, they had ended up in Australia, settling in the tiny town of Beechworth. With a population of three thousand thereabouts, Beechworth was a far-cry from the big city life of London. Yet it proved to be just what they needed. The climate was warmer, sunnier and more pleasant. It was very self-contained, and despite being a fairly popular tourist spot, it was hardly likely to draw attention from unwanted guests. The town's residents knew each other, but no one knew or cared about anything happening outside their bubble. They had been a bit wary of Harry and Ruth at first; English newcomers in a very well-established Australian community. However, they had soon come to accept them, not least because of Ruth's enthusiasm regarding the town's history and its Gold Rush fame – and of course, because of Lottie. The tiny, dark-haired girl had the power to wrap _anyone_ around her little finger with her mother's big blue eyes, and her father's charm. Literally everyone wanted to mother her.

Needing somewhere to stay, Harry and Ruth had initially rented out a static caravan. That had been tough at first, with both of them anxious about the constant in-flow of new, potentially dangerous people. But gradually they had come to realise that the whole world was not out to get them, and as every case proved, their travelling neighbours were just harmless tourists out for a good holiday. So they stayed. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and before they knew it, nearly three years had passed and what had started out as temporary accommodation had become their home. They grew to be a well-established part of the community. Harry even adjusted to the locals calling him 'mate'. But when Lottie was approaching her third birthday, they had decided that they would need more room – more space for her to grow.

At the time, the park had been owned by old Mrs Ginty. She knew that they were house-hunting, and it just so happened that she was searching for a buyer for the Caravan Park. As she repeatedly told them (and at great length), she was desperate for someone to take the place off her hands, otherwise she would have to close. This, of course, would be a shame as the camp had been standing since she was a very little girl. Her grandparents had set it up as a means of boosting the tourist industry. And extremely successful it had been. However, Mrs Ginty, twice a widow and well into her twilight years, could not keep up with the business, and was distinctly doddery getting around the old stone-built cottage at the edge of the park. So she had arranged to go and live with family in Brisbane. All she needed was a buyer.

It had been a big decision. But Lottie had become so comfortable with her camp surroundings, and honestly, they had needed a little extra income to support them through raising a child. So Harry and Ruth gratefully accepted. For a bargain price, the little stone cottage was now theirs, and with it came the task of maintaining the Caravan Park. It was not an overwhelming amount of work. Visitors came, paid their way, looked after themselves and left, and it was enough to give them both a renewed sense of purpose and profit. Ruth suspected Harry secretly enjoyed inflicting his wrath upon misbehaving clients. She had barely been able to contain her smile when he stormed in after driving out the Americans the night before. It had been so much like déjà vu. She had half expected him to turn to her and demand that she dig up all the dirt she could find on the youngsters so that he could 'bury them'.

Now, Harry busied himself with buttoning up his shirt, just as Ruth pulled on her skirt from the day before. She caught him searching for a belt and tossed him one from a nearby draw. He smiled his gratitude, and hastily secured his trousers in place. He had lost quite a lot of weight since leaving England – they both had. He put it down to drinking less whiskey, maintaining a proper diet, and regular exercise in the form of walks, running around after Lottie, and of course making love to his darling Ruth.

"So you're picking her up from school and taking her to the beach for a couple of hours?" he clarified.

"Yes, I think collecting shells will keep her occupied until you can get the guests sorted."

"Lucky me," Harry muttered. "A marquee full of five and six-year-olds."

Ruth went to the wardrobe mirror and started to tease out the stubborn tangles from her hair. Quite how she managed to get it into such a state during sex with Harry was still a mystery to her. The man responsible appeared behind her, now fully dressed. He pressed a loving kiss to the back of her head, and held his hand out for the brush.

"Allow me?"

Ruth smiled at him through the mirror. He had a talent for making her heart melt – just by doing the little things. She turned, kissed him gently on the lips in thanks, and gave up the brush to his capable hands. Those American youths had probably thought her beloved Harry (or rather Henry Knight, as he was known here) was a dragon. But he was, in fact, a big pussycat. She stood quite still, allowing him to card carefully through the tangles he had created during their lovemaking. Her hair was slightly longer than it used to be, with it falling just below her shoulders, and it held several natural loose curls. He thought it really suited her. Ruth closed her eyes and allowed herself to enjoy his ministrations. Having a young daughter had made Harry quite adept at brushing hair. He could even proudly state that through Ruth's tutoring, and with the help of trusty YouTube, he had learnt to do a French plait.

"You know you'll enjoy the party really." Ruth told him softly.

"Giddy, screaming children, falling out, having accidents and eating far too much cake. Yes, I'm sure I will." Harry muttered dryly. "Whitehall would seem fairly sane in comparison."

"You'll get gooey-eyed when she asks you to help her blow out her candles."

"I don't get... _gooey-eyed_, Ruth," he objected, tugging gently on a strand of hair in reproach.

"Of course you don't." Ruth smiled.

There was a sudden soft moan from the room across the hall, and the distinct rustle of bedclothes. Ruth glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 6:00. Like clockwork.

"Looks like somebody's waking up." Harry observed, brushing out the last of the tangles and returning the brush to the dresser.

He wandered back to where she stood and snaked his arms around her waist, guiding her until her back was flush against his chest. He peppered feather light kisses up her slender neck, and Ruth whimpered, nuzzling contentedly into his shoulder. A small creak emanating from the other room had them quickly pausing, listening for any further noises. There were none. For now.

"We need to set off early this morning." Ruth sighed, the heavy weight of reality setting in.

"I thought you didn't need to be at work until ten." Harry frowned.

He had sort of been hoping for a shower with her in the time between taking Lottie to school and her going to work. After Lottie was old enough to go to school, Ruth had been noticeably restless. Her mind would play more on the past, and he had sensed an anxiety within her that hadn't occurred when she was fully occupied with looking after their daughter. So when he had heard that the Burke Museum was hiring, he had instantly thought of her. Of course she was hired on the spot, and as with anything she did, she was a marvel.

"Miss Cavanaugh wants to speak to me." Ruth explained with another sigh.

Harry's frown deepened. Why had Lottie's teacher specifically asked to speak to Ruth? Was there a problem he needed to know about? Was Lottie unhappy at school? She hadn't said anything, and Lottie was generally the sort of girl who spoke her mind when troubled.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, and Ruth couldn't bear the hurt expression befalling his face.

"I tried to, last night," she confessed. "But you were busy raving about those 'American twerps'"

Harry closed his eyes, inwardly thumped himself. He knew he had an inane ability to go off on one about pests like that. It was a habit he hadn't managed to break from his years in the service. But when it got in the way of his family's wellbeing then he knew that it had gone too far.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, ashamed.

"Don't be," she assured him, turning to stroke the contours of his cheek with her thumb. "It's okay."

And it was. She understood that it was just his way. When he had his mind fixed on something, no other information was able to filter through. So it was just better to talk to him when his mind wasn't so full; when the problem occupying his thoughts had been ironed out.

"What did Miss Cavanaugh want?" Harry asked quietly as he re-opened his eyes.

"She said Lottie tried to stand up for Alfie Sullivan when a group of children were picking on him."

"Alfie Sullivan? Isn't he the little lad with Autism?"

"Yes. Lottie wanted to teach the other kids about tolerance."

Harry beamed, pride positively radiating out of him. Their little girl really was something special. Her innate kindness and love for others was definitely something she got from her mother.

"But surely that's a good thing," he shrugged. "Children need to learn about tolerance."

"Yes, but the children in question were Year 6 – that's eleven years old. They must have been towering over her! Imagine what they could have done to her!"

Harry would have been an oblivious fool not to see the terror in her eyes. It had taken an awful lot of persuasion on his part, and a great deal of courage from Ruth, to send Lottie off to school when the time came. Ruth had been petrified of something happening to her whilst she was not under her parents' protection. However, despite being incredibly cautious of strangers, Lottie was a fiercely independent child, with a highly developed sense of right and wrong. How could she not be, with who her parents were? She had needed the connection to other children and the space to grow. Ruth had known that, deep down, and had ultimately come to accept it. But that didn't stop her from worrying.

"The staff wouldn't let any harm come to her, Ruth." Harry reassured her, guiding her into his arms and rocking her there for a moment.

"She called one of the bullies 'bonehead'." Ruth suddenly announced into his chest.

Harry froze.

"She did _what_?" he blinked.

"She called one of the Year 6 bullies 'bonehead'," she repeated, pulling back and eyeing him accusingly.

He did not know whether it was the expression of disapproval upon Ruth's face, or the mental picture of his tiny, strong-willed daughter calling a group of towering Year 6's 'bonehead', but within a split second he was laughing so hard his belly ached. Ruth just stood there stiffly.

"Harry, it's not funny," she muttered.

Harry shook his head amidst his laugher, reaching out to rub her shoulders, "Oh, come on, Ruth. You've got to admit, it is a_ bit_ funny."

"Three guesses where she picked up that word," she scorned softly, though her stern facade was beginning to crack.

Harry shrugged helplessly, "She likes to watch quiz shows with me, you know that."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean you have to use that sort of language," she tutted, disengaging herself from his embrace and padding across the room – partly to find her boots, but mainly to hide her smile. "She'll pick up anything we say. You know how bright she is."

"She takes after her mother." he said fondly, leaning against the wardrobe to watch her.

"Stop using flattery to get out of trouble, you." Ruth admonished, her eyes twinkling as she zipped up her boots.

"I'll have you know that I'm a model father." Harry stated, folding his arms as if to emphasise his point. "If you heard all the times I had to swear at idiotic politicians, you'd realise how positively tame I am when watching television."

"You're forgetting that I heard a lot of your rants," Ruth reminded him, also folding her arms as she moved to stand opposite him. "Your swearing would have made a sailor proud."

"Aha! So you admit that my language now is much, _much_ better?" Harry hedged triumphantly.

Ruth looked into those gorgeous, hazel puppy dog eyes and knew that she could never stay stern with him for long. But she had to make him sweat, just a little, so she paused, as if taking great pain-staking efforts to think about it. Then she gave in and rolled her eyes.

"Fine. I admit that."

Harry sealed his victory with another kiss. She eagerly accepted before pulling back, serious once more.

"But that doesn't mean you're off the hook, Harry Pearce. Last night, as I was putting her to bed, she asked me what an 'American twerp' was."

It was Harry's turn to look aghast.

"You're not serious?"

"I'm _very_ serious."

"Really?"

"_Really."_

"I... I'll be more careful what I say around her in the future." He blushed, having the good grace to look abashed.

"_It's my birthday!_" The pair suddenly heard a groggy little voice exclaim from the other room, swiftly followed by increasingly excitable shrieks as the voice's owner grew more alert. "_It's my birthday! It's my birthday! Mummy! Daddy_!"

"Here comes trouble." Harry murmured, inciting a grin from Ruth.

Hand-in-hand, they turned to face the door, waiting for the oncoming storm.

* * *

**And there we have it. I you enjoyed reading. Shall I continue? All the best x**


	2. Chapter 2: The Jabberwocky

Harry and Ruth didn't have to wait long for the storm to hit. There was a stampede along the hallway floor; the sound of familiar footsteps careering towards their bedroom. Seconds later, their pride and joy came bursting through the door, riding high on a tide of enthusiasm. Her shoulder-length dark hair was sticking up in all directions, and her eyes were still slightly crusted from sleep. One pyjama leg had somehow ridden up her thigh and one sock was already off, probably having vanished to whatever haven the other missing socks disappeared off to. Ruth had yet to find where they went. It was hard to find a pair of socks for their daughter on a day-to-day basis.

Lottie was clutching her precious stuffed cow, aptly named 'Moo'. The poor thing had seen better days. With dried toothpaste stuck to his front hooves, a burn to his belly, bite marks to his horns and a brown discoloration to his whole sorry being, he looked more akin to a Jersey cow than a Friesian. The first place they had landed after leaving England had been Amsterdam. Harry had taken Ruth and Lottie to the nearest hospital for further care. Tom had dutifully visited to say his goodbyes, but not before handing them a little cuddly Friesian cow. _"For the baby,"_ He had muttered. _"Just... you know... from the gift shop."_ But Harry had later discovered that the hospital gift shop sold no such things. He could only assume that Tom Quinn had trudged all the way through the streets of Amsterdam to find a toy shop. And that was both an amusing and an endearing thought.

From the get go, Lottie had fallen in love with Moo. Many times during her first six months of life, when she had been at her most unsettled, a snuggle with Moo had been the only thing that got her off to sleep.

Now, less than six years later, excitement was alight in the tiny girl's bright blue eyes, her wide grin showing off a number of wobbly milk teeth. She flung herself into her parents' embrace, one arm clinging tightly to each of their legs.

"Mummy! Daddy! I'm six today! I'm _six_!" she chattered animatedly in her sweet Anglo-Australian accent.

Ruth couldn't help but grin. She loved seeing her little girl so excited. Lottie laughing, smiling and generally loving life was a sight that never failed to warm her heart. She and Harry were the most precious things in her world, and she knew she would never take either of them for granted.

"I know! Happy birthday. my darling!" she crooned, stooping to Lottie's level to press a huge, wet kiss to her daughter's cheek. "You're a whole year older, and such a _big _girl."

Lottie beamed, clearly thrilled at having graduated to 'big girl' status. Then she looked to her father for _his_ response. Unable to bear disappointing her, Harry swooped down, and although he knew his back would pay for it later, he lifted his little girl high into his arms to plant another massive kiss on her cheek.

"Happy birthday, Squirt!" he greeted affectionately.

"Daddy! I'm a big girl now!" Lottie huffed, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You can't call me 'Squirt' anymore!"

Harry felt Ruth snort beside him, and as she drew herself back up to full height, she glanced up at him with impish eyes, "That's you told."

"Oh, be quiet, you," he told her lightly. "What did I tell you? Six going on sixteen."

"Moo wants cake." Lottie announced, not even missing a beat as she shoved the battered old cow next to her own face to gaze pleadingly up at Harry. Yes, she certainly could wrap people around her little finger – especially her dad. As she looked up at him with those beautiful blue eyes that were so much like his darling Ruth's, he found himself flailing slightly. It _was_ her birthday after all. Where would be the harm? Perhaps Ruth saw him starting to cave, because she rescued him almost immediately. She reached forwards, lifted Lottie into her own arms, and carried her to the door.

"Well Moo can't have cake yet, my darling. You can _both_ have some later after school, but you certainly _cannot_ have cake for breakfast." she insisted, softly but firmly – as had always been her parenting style.

It did not matter if there were occasions when Ruth was going completely to pieces inside – she would always act calm and measured around her daughter. It was a promise she had made herself since Lottie was a baby, when her daughter would cry all day and night, leaving Ruth so frazzled that she ended up sobbing helplessly on the bathroom floor with Harry's arms around her. She had soon realised that Lottie was sensitive to her others' emotions, and responded directly to her distress. Since then, she had resolved to always remain calm around her daughter; to be a gentle but firm presence; reassuring and protective, yet giving the child room for independence. And however much of a wrench this proved to be, she had followed through with it, because she did not want her daughter to be afraid of the world.

They all headed downstairs, Harry bringing up the rear, silently cursing himself for nearly falling for those hypnotic blue eyes. He decided that if the little girl really was going to object to 'Squirt' from now on, he ought to call her 'Monkey' instead. She was certainly mischievous enough. The little minx had identified _him_ as the softer touch – as usual – and gone to him before Ruth. He smirked as Lottie's face fell, defeated in her plight for cake. Clearly, Ruth wasn't as much of a sucker as he was.

Upon reaching the kitchen, Ruth deposited Lottie onto a chair at the dining table, kissing the top of her head before moving to retrieve the breakfast things. As always, Lottie bounced back quickly. She seated Moo on the table next to her and hummed lightly to herself, fiddling absently with the cow's hooves. Harry opened the curtains to allow the now-risen sun to filter through. A picture of perfect domesticity, they all slotted easily into their morning routine. Ruth found two mugs and passed them to Harry, who flicked the kettle on and set them down on the marbled countertop. Ruth then hunted in the cupboard for cookware, whilst Harry sought out of the cafetiere and coffee grains.

"What would you like for breakfast, Lottie?" Ruth called. "You can have a special breakfast today if you like, since it's your big day."

"Yes, please!" Lottie grinned happily. "Special breakfast!"

Harry came to sit beside her, waiting for the kettle to boil.

"Do we all get special breakfasts, Mummy?" he asked cheekily, earning a roll of the eyes from Ruth.

"Of course we do. Bacon, eggs, beans and tomatoes. Is that okay?"

"Sounds wonderful, thank you." Harry smiled. "Do you want any help?"

"I think I can manage. If you can do the coffee though...?"

"Already on it," he replied, nodding to the boiling kettle and the cafetiere that was primed and ready.

"Eewwww! Coffee!" Lottie pulled a face.

Harry tweaked her nose lightly, "Nobody's asking you to _have_ any coffee, Squirt."

He half expected her to object to the nickname again, but she seemed to have forgotten all about that. They all knew that the little girl secretly loved it.

As Ruth busied herself with the food, he entertained Lottie by making Moo do an odd little dance across the dining table which ended in him doing the splits and her in fits of laughter.

"Do the voice, Daddy! Please!" Lottie urged him between giggles, her big blue eyes beseeching once more. Harry was unsurprised by this request, but he wanted to get his own back on his daughter before he did her bidding _again_.

"What voice?" He asked, feigning innocence. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ruth grin.

"The _voice_, Daddy." Lottie explained. "You know, _Moo's _voice."

"Oh, I don't know, Squirt. If you're getting to be a _big girl_, I think you must be too old for 'the voice' now." He reasoned, very much with his tongue in his cheek as he watched his daughter's eyes grow as wide as saucers.

"I'll _never_ be too old for 'the voice'." She insisted earnestly. "Never, ever, ever."

All joking aside, Harry was actually rather glad to hear that. He loved making his daughter laugh each time he voiced that grubby old cow. It was one of the main things he and Lottie had bonded over as she was growing up. She and Ruth shared so many loves: reading, maths, history, languages, music... And whilst he adored watching their minds meld over these wonderfully intelligent things, it was nice to have something really inane that was _their_ thing.

He suddenly felt quite pensive – forlorn even – wishing Lottie could stay a baby forever. It only felt like yesterday that she was born. And now, six years later, she had her own mind, her own personality, her own likes and dislikes, and a manner that was very much representative of the best and worst parts of him and Ruth. She was still tiny, of course. Their little 'Squirt'. She was the smallest in her class, and indeed, had always been small for her age. He put that down her early entrance into the world. She had been worryingly sick during her first few weeks of life, and both he and Ruth had panicked that she wouldn't live long. However, she was as stubborn as her parents and defied all the odds. And so now, here sat their sunny little daughter, demanding that he do 'the voice'. And damn it, how could he not?

Harry cleared his throat dramatically before standing the mucky little cow up on his hind legs. He then held one of its front hooves out and said in a deep, gravelly voice: "So I hear it's a very special day for a very special girl today." Lottie giggled adorably at her father's antics. Harry held the front paw closer to his child's mouth, "How do you feel about turning the big six today?"

As per a child's imagination, Lottie knew immediately that she was being offered a microphone, and spoke delightedly into the cow's hoof, "Good."

Harry made the toy clap a pondering paw to its mouth, "Hhmmm, only _good_, eh? Well that doesn't _sound_ so good to me."

"_Really _good." Lottie amended. "And you're six too, Moo, 'cause you're the same age as me."

Harry let out a throaty, exaggerated gasp, as if the cow had only just realised this fact, "Oh goodness gracious, I am. I'm six just like you. We're birthday buddies!"

"We can celebrate after school at my party."

Harry and Ruth froze, their mouths hanging open in shock. The party had been intended as a surprise. Over the last few weeks, they had put a great deal of effort into ensuring that all plans were kept secret, and that invited guests kept their mouths firmly shut.

"Who said anything about a party?" Harry spluttered, trying and failing to be nonchalant.

"You did," Lottie said cheerfully, taking Moo from Harry's now stilled hand, and making him do a back flip across the table. "You and Mummy were talking about it the other night before dinner. I heard you. You're really not very good at keeping secrets, Daddy."

This time it was Ruth's turn to burst out laughing, and Harry's to look miffed. It was a little insulting that he had managed to keep numerous state secrets from very powerful political radicals, and yet his plans for a surprise birthday party had been rumbled by a six-year-old. Ruth had actually told him that she didn't think they would get away with it, but he had been absolutely adamant that Lottie wouldn't find out. It just went to show how well some mothers could read their daughters. He glanced forlornly up at Ruth, who stopped laughing and flashed him a sympathetic smile. She could see that his pride had been dented.

"Oh, also," Lottie continued matter-of-factly. "Amelia Craig in my class told me she had been invited and that she was coming, but said if there was cake, could it please be chocolate because she doesn't like fondant icing."

"Doesn't. Like. Fondant Icing." He blinked, completely stunned. Since when did six-year-olds complain about fondant icing? Never mind his worries about his daughter becoming a teenager; kids her age had already graduated to old women!

"Jamie Peters said that he's coming too, but asked if there was a bouncy castle. I said I didn't know because it's supposed to be a surprise party." Lottie stated brightly, before asking the room at large, "_Is_ there a bouncy castle?"

Ruth waited for Harry to give an answer but he was still staring at their daughter as if she had grown a second head.

"No, my darling," she eventually answered. "there isn't a bouncy castle."

"Okay," Lottie shrugged easily. "That's fine. I don't think Alfie would like bouncy castles anyway."

And with that, she skipped off to the living room, probably to find a book to occupy her until breakfast. Just like her mother, Lottie was an avid reader; a lover of all things books, whether it be fiction, finding out about the world through encyclopaedias and history volumes, reading simplified poetry, or tackling mathematical problems. Maths was undoubtedly her favourite. She was much more advanced in her mathematical studies than any of her classmates, which at first had been a great source of frustration. Harry didn't know where Lottie's gift for numbers had come from – Ruth, most likely. It certainly wasn't him. Last week, her homework had been six whole pages of quadratic equations, which had left him utterly bamboozled. He wasn't _bad_ at maths, but it had been a long time since his school days, and it had been a shock to the system seeing a tiny little girl completing high school standard work.

At the beginning of the year, when Lottie's talents had become apparent, Miss Cavanaugh had wanted to fast-track her through school. She had suggested that she sit with Year 6, however this had deeply distressed the little girl, who didn't understand why she couldn't stay with her friends. Ruth, who had attained a similar academic level as a child, had herself been pushed to fast-track certain years. She knew from experience that whilst it had made her quite brilliant in many ways, it had also left her very shy, and for a long time, socially inept. Initially, she blamed _herself_ for putting Lottie in such a position, wondering if she had done right by teaching her so much in her infant years. Then she realised that Lottie was her own person; she was incredibly thirsty for knowledge and delighted in soaking up every morsel of information. She wanted to learn, but she also wanted the love and safety of her friends. Ruth fully supported this desire, and together, she, Harry, Lottie and the school had reached an arrangement. Lottie would stay with her friends in her own year group, but also be tutored by a teacher from the local high school in Maths, English and Science at weekends, giving the child a more challenging range of studies.

Harry considered this while watching Lottie skip off to the other room. He really ought to have known the girl would catch on to their 'secret' scheme. After all, she was practically a prodigy _plus_ the offspring of two spooks. He sighed and dragged his eyes up to meet Ruth's. Her heart very nearly broke at the helplessness she saw in his face.

"It's alright that the party isn't a surprise, Harry. She's just happy to have one."

"I suppose," he grunted, rising from his seat to fix the coffee. "I should have guessed that she'd twig. She _is _our daughter, after all."

With one hand still guarding the stove, Ruth wordlessly reached across and squeezed his shoulder. He inclined his head and pressed a sweet kiss to the back of her hand. Lottie bounded back into the kitchen clutching a thick book tightly against her chest. She heaved it onto the table and began browsing through it.

"What is it today, Squirt?" Harry teased as she finally settled on a page. "_War and Peace_? _The Battle of Hastings_? Einstein's _Theory of Relativity_?"

Ruth's gentle hand on his shoulder turned into a light smack, and he snorted out a laugh in response. He couldn't see her face because they had their backs to each other, but he knew that she was smiling.

Lottie glanced up at him with keen eyes, "The Jabberwocky."

"Oh, I'm not sure that's a poem for little girls," Ruth began concernedly, her brows furrowing.

"But Mummy, you said I'm a _big_ girl now." Lottie reminded her. Harry released another snort, earning him a second swat to the shoulder. "And also the poem was in the _Alice in Wonderland_ book you read to me once. You said _that_ was okay."

Ruth sighed, unable to fault her logic there. Lottie read silently for a couple of minutes, her lips mouthing each and every word. After a while she looked up.

"I think there are a lot of spelling mistakes in this poem," she said decisively, pulling Moo onto her lap so that he could read along with her. "The words don't make sense."

"That's because they're nonsense words, darling." Ruth informed her, flipping the bacon to the other side of the pan. "They're not real words. The author just put them in to make the poem sound more exciting."

Lottie frowned, re-read the page and peered back at her mother. Then, really quite comically, she made Moo do the same. Finally, both she and the grubby cow turned to look confusedly at Ruth.

"But... but Mummy, it _doesn't_ make it more exciting. It just makes it so that it doesn't make sense."

"The Jabberwocky is a poem that's sounds a lot better when you read it out loud," Ruth told the little girl patiently. Finishing her cooking, she turned off the gas and began serving up. "If you read it with lots and lots of expression, you find that it doesn't matter that the words don't make sense. From the sound of your voice, you have a good idea of what the author is saying."

There was a pause and Ruth glanced across the room to see Lottie still seeming quite confused. To illustrate her point, Ruth launched into a theatrical recital of _The Jabberwocky_: "'Twas _brillig_, and the slithy toves, did _gyre_ and _gimble_ in the wabe. And _mimsy_ were the borogoves, and the _mome raths_ outgrabe

"It's all just silly words!" Lottie observed, giggling at her mother's dramatics. "But you're right, it sounds better when you say it out loud."

Having finished the coffee, Harry joined in the fun by creeping to the dining table, swooping down and lifting an unsuspecting Lottie out of her seat. She screamed with laugher as he twirled her round and round, carefully dodging Ruth who darted between them with plates of food.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that _bite_, the claws that _catch_!" Harry took up the poem, gnashing his teeth after 'bite'. On the 'claw', he moulded his hand into a talon, with which he began mercilessly tickling his daughter.

Lottie's shrieks of laughter grew increasingly hysterical, and Harry only stopped once he realised that the poor little thing was so giddy that she was quite literally heaving for breath. He placed a swift peck on her cheek and lowered her gently back down into her chair. Ruth delighted in watching her family muck around – only she was a little concerned by the purplish-red colour of Lottie's face; the result of laughing so hard.

"Sit still and take a few deep breaths, Lottie," she advised, and Lottie immediately complied. "Have you finished tormenting our daughter?" she asked of Harry as he sat down next to her.

"Tormenting?" Harry repeated with an irresistible twinkle in his eye. He began tucking into his cooked breakfast. "Oh no, sweetheart. That was only the start. It will be the thumbscrews next."

"What are thumbscrews?" Lottie immediately piped up.

"Nothing we should be discussing over breakfast." Ruth ruled adamantly, nudging Harry under the table as he started tittering into his coffee mug. "Eat your food, darling. And afterwards, if we have time, you may be able to open one of your presents before school."

"Oooh presents!" Lottie cheered, clearly relishing every moment of her big day so far. First a special cooked breakfast and now the prospect of presents! She picked up her knife and fork and began ripping gleefully into her bacon. But the three of them only got so far in their meals before she suddenly frowned, "What _is_ a Jabberwocky?"

Harry and Ruth paused, then eyed one another, silently conferring how to answer such a question. The last thing they wanted was for their six-year-old to be frightened of a non-existent monster. In the end, Harry took the lead.

"It's... a kind of monster, Squirt." He answered cautiously. "But it's fictional."

"That means it's made-up, right?" Lottie checked amidst a mouthful of bacon.

"Yes, darling, it does. So you don't need to be worried about a Jabberwocky." Ruth told her firmly.

"So the poem's about a monster?"

"It's about a _young man_ and a monster." Ruth nodded, choosing each word with care. "A father warns his son of this monster, the Jabberwocky. But the son doesn't listen to his father, and goes off to defeat the monster, because he thinks he can."

"And can he?"

"Yes, he can. He defeats the Jabberwocky." Harry replied.

"Defeat as in 'kill'?" Lottie asked with wide eyes.

"Erm..." Harry's eyes flicked to Ruth, who shook her head minutely. However seeing Lottie's big blue eyes blinking curiously at him, he decided that it wouldn't be right to lie to her. "Well... yes."

"Killing's bad." Lottie concluded matter-of-factly.

She shovelled a forkful of beans into her mouth, unaware of the stricken looks her parents were exchanging. She was right, of course. Under any normal circumstances, she was absolutely right. However, there had been no one-size-fits-all guideline for their previous profession. There had been many complicating factors. It had been kill or be killed. And both of them had, at one point (or in Harry's case, on many occasions), killed another human being – albeit, for survival's sake or the safety of their country. But all the same, hearing those words spouting from their six-year-old's lips was rather like a punch to the gut.

"Well... well..." Harry muttered, fumbling for the right words. "The Jabberwocky is a really mean, people-hungry monster, and it's eaten lots and lots of people. The son wants to protect his family and friends. So to do this, he needs to slay the monster – even if he doesn't want to."

Lottie finished her breakfast and placed her cutlery together, just as she had been taught. She tugged the thick, hardback poetry book onto her lap and traced the letters on the page thoughtfully.

"So..." she frowned, and Harry noticed that she looked the spitting image of _Ruth_ in thought. "So... the son is doing it to look after his family and friends?"

"Yes." Harry confirmed.

"Even though it's bad, he just wants to do what's right for all the people." Lottie surmised, and her parents stared at each other, once again bowled over by the extent of their daughter's intellect.

"Yes, that's right, darling," Ruth said quietly, tucking a strand of dark hair behind Lottie's ear.

"So he's like a knight, and the Jabberwocky's a dragon?" the child worked out.

"That's exactly what it's like," Harry nodded. "The son is like a good knight, and the Jabberwocky an evil dragon."

"But killing's still not okay, right?" Lottie asked, her eyes big and round and so full of innocence that Ruth suddenly wanted to cry.

"No," she whispered, a tight knot forming in her throat. Just to distract herself, she reached across and wiped a smear of tomato sauce from her daughter's chin. She could feel Harry's eyes boring into her as she spoke. "No it's... it's not. It's really not."

"But The Jabberwocky _is_ just fiction isn't it, Mummy?"

"Yes, of course." Ruth answered, feeling a gentle hand on her arm. She knew, without even looking, that it belonged to Harry.

"Then why are you crying?"

Ruth was mortified. Utterly, utterly mortified. She had genuinely not even realised she _was _crying. It hadn't registered that the sharp stinging in her eyes, the tight coil in her throat, the sickening surge in her stomach and the sizzling scorch of her cheeks were actually signs that she was welling up. She saw how anxious poor Lottie suddenly looked, and fought the overwhelming urge to kick herself. _So much for not getting into a state around your daughter_, she thought. She shook her head and swiped an impatient hand across her eyes, tamping down her tears and plastering a tremulous smile across her face.

"Oh... oh I'm not crying, my darling," she lied, and Harry's gentle pressure on her arm grew slightly heavier. She was glad of the grip; it helped her feel more anchored, more present. "Mummy's just being a bit silly, that's all. I suppose I'm just... just happy _and_ sad that my little girl's getting all grown up."

For a moment, Lottie just peered suspiciously up at Ruth. Then, she slid slowly out of her seat and clambered up onto her mother's lap, wrapping her twiglet arms around her neck. Ruth swallowed, slipping her own arm from Harry's hold and enveloping Lottie in a huge, heartfelt hug.

"That's nice," she whispered, burying her nose in her daughter's hair to inhale her sweet scent. "Just what Mummy needed. Special big girl cuddles."

Lottie beamed back, satisfied that she had done the right thing. They stayed there for a good while, Ruth rocking her baby back and forth; Lottie sitting huddled in her mother's arms, content to be rocked.

"Hey, Squirt," Harry said quietly, his eyes fixed firmly on Ruth. "If you look in the lounge, there may or may not be a present hiding somewhere."

Those truly were the magic words, for not a split second later, Lottie was squealing and leaping from her mother's lap, dashing excitedly towards the living room. She only got so far though. As soon as she reached the kitchen door, she skidded to a halt and turned her winsome eyes back on Ruth, clearly torn between wanting to make her mother feel better and the tempting gift that lay in wait.

"Go on, darling," Ruth coaxed. Her heart almost broke to see the angst still rampant in Lottie's big blue eyes. Needing more than anything fix the smile back onto her little girl's face, Ruth dug down deep and rallied all the strength she had into producing a brighter, more realistic smile. Then she tugged back her sleeve and tapped her watch. "I'll tell you what. I'll time you. See how long it takes you to find it."

Lottie's face brightened. She was never one to turn down a challenge.

"Okay," she grinned.

"Let's see if you can find it in less than three minutes," Ruth waited until the minute hand struck twelve again, then nodded. "And... go!"

Lottie tore from the kitchen, her little arms flailing adorably as she ran. Ruth allowed her smile to fall.

For a moment, silence reigned. Everything held still save for the faint bumps and clatters coming from the next room, signifying Lottie's hunt for the much-anticipated present. She was no doubt making a horrible mess, but they would deal with that later.

"Ruth." Harry breathed softly.

Never had there been so much meaning hidden in that one word. Ruth almost couldn't bear his tender regard for her; the love and reverence with which he uttered her name. He wasn't pitying her; there wasn't a hint of pity there, for which she was extremely grateful. But there _was_ a tentativeness to his delivery; an uncertainty that betrayed just how fruitless and unforthcoming words could sometimes be. For sometimes, one could not find the right words to say, and sometimes, words were just not enough.

Still, his tone was gentle and patient and laced with unwavering concern. It was the same tone he had used throughout those first couple of years of recovery; the voice he had adopted to drag her back from the brink during those nights of vicious, soul-crushing nightmares. Ruth could still remember the heat of his breath against her ear as he crooned her into consciousness. She could still feel the power in his arms as he clutched her tight to his chest, rocking her with him as she screamed and strained and writhed and raged and rode out each maelstrom of misery, each torrent of unremitting terror. She could still sense the comforting weight of his body beneath hers, as he pressed her trembling form to his heart and held her there; held her close until its reassuring beat drew her out of the shadows and back to the present. Back to _him_.

Ruth shut her eyes, willing herself to retain a modicum of self-control. Once she felt sure that she wasn't going to burst into tears, she opened them again and reached across the table for her love's hand. He gave it immediately, holding her safe and tight and warm. As always, he was the guard, the eternal knight standing stoutly on the wall, protecting his loved ones from the might of evil – from the Jabberwocky.

But every knight had its weakness – its Achilles Hell – and she just so happened to be his. Her pain, her distress, affected him just as deeply as his affected her, and she could see the telltale crinkle of concern, the blistering intensity in his troubled eyes. She tried to manage a reassuring smile, feeling guilty for worrying him so; for making him look so much older and wearier than he had only ten minutes before.

"It's alright, Harry," she whispered. "We did so many things back then. Things a person couldn't even... _begin_ to explain or – or justify... unless they were there on the front line of it all." The 'like us' went unspoken. She looked away and ran her free hand through her hair, suddenly feeling very tired. "She's bright. And curious. I knew she'd start asking questions that'd hit a raw nerve one day. I just didn't think it would be this soon." She let out a wet, choked sort of snort, "Or because of reading the bloody Jabberwocky!"

Harry smiled weakly, though he knew neither of them really found that very funny.

"Death and killing is an awful thing to discuss in any context," he acknowledged quietly. "But for us, it may seem like everything said is a personally aimed jab." He inclined his head to try and make eye contact, but she steadfastly avoided it. So he paused; waited for her to process his words, waited for her feel strong enough to meet his eyes once more. When she finally did, he saw a myriad of emotions there: love, regret, relief, worry, and worst of all, fear. "But what she said... what _others_ will undoubtedly say... their words _aren't _personal, sweetheart," he iterated, squeezing her hand as tightly as he dared. "It's hard, I know, but we just have to keep trying to remember that fact. If we don't, we'll never be able to fully move on."

"We'll never forget," Ruth whispered knowingly, and Harry hated the haunted glint in her eyes.

"No," he admitted. "But we _can_ keep moving forward. Together. Just as we always have done."

Ruth's eyes landed on his, taking in those soft, hazel orbs, so rich, so deep – like liquid honey.

"We've done a pretty damn good job of it so far," she murmured, her lip curling into a tiny smile.

Harry grinned, "The _best_."

"Even if I felt like a hypocrite just then with our daughter."

"You gave what I expect would be a fairly ordinary and acceptable response to a question that, let's be honest, would be difficult coming from a child anyway," Harry reassured her with another squeeze of the hand. "It just so happens that you and I led quite... extraordinary lives."

"We told Lottie that there are no such things as monsters," Ruth recalled sadly. "But there are, aren't there?"

"Not here, sweetheart," Harry said firmly. "They can't touch us here."

Ruth paused, reflecting on his words. Then she nodded and kissed his hand, cradling it carefully against her cheek, absorbing its warmth and resounding strength.

"Found it!" Came an enthusiastic shriek from the other room, making Ruth chuckle in spite of herself. She placed her love's hand gently back down and turned just in time to see Lottie scurry in, lugging a heavy-looking parcel. "Found it, Mummy! How long was I?"

Ruth dutifully checked her watch while Harry helped haul the package onto the table.

"Two minutes, thirty-five seconds. Well done!"

Lottie beamed but said nothing, preferring, like her mother, to keep her achievements to herself. Instead, she turned her grin on Moo and gave the grubby cow a triumphant twirl.

"Come on then, Squirt," Harry urged. "Open it."

The little girl didn't need telling twice. She massacred the wrapping paper and found a large, thick textbook.

"Quadratics!" She squealed, her ocean eyes lighting up with joy.

She proceeded to launch into an enthusiastic monologue about the brilliance of quadratic equations, and both parents were powerless to do anything else but smile. The shock of before was forgotten, for a silent resolve had been made to move on from the life they left behind. And with it, the easy, light-hearted domesticity returned.

Little did they know that fate had other plans. Harry had been wrong. Very wrong. There was a darkness brewing, and with it, the monsters were coming. Their blissful bubble was about to be well and truly burst.

* * *

**Many thanks to all you lovely people who reviewed. You seemed to want more so here is more! I hope to be posting weekly, so sorry for the slight delay. Chapters don't take long to write, but editing takes ages! All the best x**


	3. Chapter 3: The Stranger

"Madam? Excuse me, Madam."

She awoke to a soft voice in her ear, and the feel of someone touching her shoulder. Groggy and disorientated, she groaned, swatted the unwelcome hand away, and wriggled around in her seat, trying, without success, to get comfortable. It took her a second to process that thought. Wait. Her seat? Since when did she sleep sitting upright? She forced her eyes open and waited for the blurred outlines to swim properly into view. She was facing the back of a padded seat – a travel seat; as one might find on a bus or plane. And then, like a tsunami hitting its prey, the horrific memories came flooding back: the discovery she had made, the fight or flight reaction that had spurred her to run, and, of course, the secret she was currently concealing deep inside her pocket. She inhaled sharply and reared back from the shadow looming over her.

"Madam, are you alright?"

She swallowed, then examined the shadow a little more carefully. It was only a stewardess. She was young-looking, possibly in her mid-twenties, with kind blue eyes, dyed blonde hair pinned neatly into a bun, and a concerned crinkle to her brow. _'Ava'_ was written in big black letters across her name tag.

"I'm sorry, what?" she asked dazedly.

"Are you alright, Madam?"

She didn't answer straight away; merely took stock of her surroundings. Most of the other passengers seemed to have gone. In fact, there was no one left inside the cabin apart from herself and the stewardess.

"I... I fell asleep," she recalled lamely.

"I don't like to hurry you, Madam. But we've arrived and my colleagues and I need to clean up."

For a moment, all she did was stare blankly at the other woman. Then, comprehension dawned and she clambered clumsily to her feet, shaking her head at her own stupidity.

"Right, yes," she muttered. "Of course."

"Your luggage can be collected from –"

"No," she mumbled with a brief shake of the head. "No, I... I don't have any luggage."

For a moment, Ava's surprise was palpable. Then presumably her training kicked in, because she quickly schooled her face into a saccharine smile.

"No problem, Madam. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

She frowned, trying to file her thoughts into some sort of coherent order. Where could she possibly go from here? What would she do? She hadn't thought this through at all. The decision to board the next available flight had been completely spontaneous. All she had known amidst the toxic fusion of panic and adrenaline was that she had to get away. Her heart still galloped ten to the dozen as she thought of the host of armed men chasing her through Damascus. Back there, back then, the turn-off to the airport had seemed like the only way out.

"Er..." she stuttered, suddenly feeling more than a little lost. "Where... where are we?"

This time, the stewardess didn't even try to mask her surprise.

"You don't know?"

It was a fair question. Having no luggage besides the clothes she was wearing _was_ somewhat odd. But boarding a flight without knowing (or caring) where it landed took oddness to a whole new level. All she could really offer in response was a feeble shrug.

"Melbourne," Ava replied with a disconcerted frown. "We're in Melbourne."

Perhaps she should have been more shocked, or reacted even just a _little_ bit to this news. But after the last forty-eight hours, she didn't feel like anything could ever really shock her again, and her face remained static and impassive.

"Madam, should I call someone?" Ava asked, concern rife in her kindly blue eyes. "We have medical services at the airport. Or there's the police – "

That alarming suggestion finally woke her from her stupor. The last thing she needed was for the police to get involved. She didn't know who she could trust or how far the conspiracy went. No, she had already drawn enough attention to herself. The best plan now was to probably keep her head down and keep moving. So she steeled herself against the land down-under and flashed what she hoped was a convincing smile.

"No. No, it's alright. I'm fine now. I just slept very deeply. I sometimes get a bit confused after a long sleep."

Ava's eyes relaxed a little, "Are you sure? I can always – "

"No, honestly, I'm fine now. Thank you."

And before the stewardess could say anything else, she made a hasty break for the exit.

Heading into the terminals was an experience she hadn't been prepared for. Almost immediately she was bombarded by a flood of sensation, from the loud chatter of nearby passengers, to the incidental music playing over the tannoy which, annoyingly, seemed to be cranked up to full volume. The smell of fast food outlets frying the usual grease-laden stodge made her queasy stomach roll. The sunlight filtering through the large window panes irritated her tied eyes, and the constant bustling of those around her had her heavy heart pounding so fast, so frantically, that she feared it might fail. Her palms were sweating, her hands were trembling and all she wanted to do was collapse in a heap and cry. But she couldn't. Not with no many people around.

She took a quick, frenzied look around her, searching for familiar faces – anyone watching her, anyone who might have followed her. Deep down, she knew that she was probably being irrational. But why then did it feel like every single person in the room was staring at her? Her hand flew automatically to her pocket, her fingers closing tightly around the cold plastic device. It was alright. It was going to be alright. She just needed to keep her cool.

She took a long, calming breath and began to shove through the throng of people, searching for a map, a help-desk, a list of routes – anything that might help her decide what to do next. She very nearly missed it. It was a sign that only just caught her attention as she scurried past. It read: _'Buses and Shuttles'_, and just below was an arrowhead pointing towards the bus stands. It took only one more fleeting glance at the overwhelming sea of faces for her to decide that this was probably her next best port of call. So, taking another shaky breath, she curled her clammy hands into fists and followed the direction of the arrowhead.

* * *

"I went to the shop and bought: a banana, some Tim Tams, a watermelon, a mop, some vegemite, six spoons, a woolly blanket, a bucket, a spade, and... a meat pie."

"Daddy's favourite," Lottie grinned, swinging Ruth's hand as they strolled side by side along the beach.

"Daddy's favourite," Ruth confirmed with a smile. "Your turn."

"Hmm... I went to the shop and bought: a banana, some Tim Tams, a watermelon, a mop, some vegemite, six spoons, a woolly blanket, a bucket, a spade, a meat pie and..." Lottie hesitated, her tongue sticking out as she thought. "and... a dog."

Ruth raised her eyebrow in amusement. "Wow! A dog! This is some shop we're buying from. It sells dogs as well as food and mops!"

Lottie giggled, then turned her beseeching eyes on Ruth, "Mummy, can _we_ get a dog?"

Ruth had to do a little double-take at the abrupt conversation shift. Where on earth had that come from? Lottie had never shown much desire to own a pet before. She seemed content enough to run around outside or lounge indoors with a book in her lap.

"I don't think so, darling," she said slowly. "A dog is a lot of work, and they can be very loud and messy. They could wake up the whole caravan park if they were to start barking at night."

"_Please._" Lottie pressed, her big blue eyes gazing imploringly at her mother. "What if it's a really _good _dog?"

Ruth sighed, despairing at her child's adorableness. Lottie _knew_ how cute she was and often found numerous ways to play up to it. She was definitely her father's daughter.

"Why the sudden interest in owning a dog, darling?"

Lottie's bright expression faded, giving way to a gloom that completely opposed her usually sunny disposition. She became uncharacteristically subdued, offering only a weak shrug in response.

"Lottie?" Ruth prompted, stopping to search her daughter's face.

The six-year-old dropped her hand from her mother's and fiddled absently with the topmost buttons of her school dress.

"We're doing family trees in class. Tasha just had a new baby sister. And Jamie has three big brothers, and they're always playing together." Ruth's heart splintered. She had a good idea of what had triggered Lottie's abrupt desire for a dog now. "Everyone seems to have a big family, but me," the little girl murmured in an achingly small voice.

Ruth's fractured heart grew heavier, wearier, as she watched her baby pick dolefully at the sleeve of her dress. Ruth had more or less recovered from her meltdown that morning, and had managed to convince herself that it had just been a small blip on her happy trajectory. However, Lottie seemed to be on a role today, reminding her of the past, of home, of rainy London and the people they had left behind.

Of course, it wasn't the little girl's fault. She knew nothing of their past; only that they used to live in England. She had been brought up to believe that their family name was Knight and that her mother and father were called Rebecca and Henry, though they actively encouraged her to refer to them only as Mummy and Daddy. The guilt was easier to deal with, that way. She still thought Charlotte was her middle name and that the reason they didn't use Joanna, the legend Malcolm had set for her, was that she hadn't been able to pronounce it as a toddler. Truth be told, they hadn't even_ tried_ to call her Joanna, because the memories of the woman after whom the legend had been created were still too painful. Plus, when they looked into their daughter's eyes they saw _Charlotte_, and Charlotte only. _Lottie _was a compromise; a derivative of her actual name, adapted to keep her safe.

But, oh, if only Lottie _did _know the truth. If only she knew that it wasn't just her and her parents all alone in a huge, scary world. If only she knew that somewhere in England she had a big brother and sister, who now perhaps even had families of their own. If only she knew of Malcolm and Dimitri and Erin and Calum and Tom and Beth and all the friends who had risked life and limb to help her family escape. But the heartbreaking reality was that she would probably _never _know this. She would forever lead a life as Joanna Charlotte Knight, the only child of Henry and Rebecca Knight, the owners of Beechworth Caravan Park, the place where nothing exciting ever really happened, save for her father ranting at the occasional disrespectful guest. But then, perhaps that was for the best.

Ruth sighed and slowly lowered herself to her knees until she was eye to eye with Lottie. She could feel the coarse grains of sand sticking to her damp skin, and the uncomfortable sensation of broken shells pressing angry indentations into her knees, but she such trivialities no mind. Instead she focused on her daughter; her beautiful, kind, bubbly, intelligent baby girl who was staring so woefully at the ground that it finally broke her oh-so heavy heart.

"Lottie, look at me," Ruth instructed softly, reaching out and smoothing the girl's haphazard hair back behind her ear.

Lottie was a very independent and forward-thinking child, but she was mercifully still of the age where she obeyed her parents' every command. She looked at Ruth through glistening eyes.

"You are loved, my darling. You are loved so very, very much by your Daddy and me." Ruth said firmly, stroking a gentle hand across Lottie's tiny cheek. "You're our whole world, and we love you to the moon and back. You know that, don't you?"

Lottie nodded, safe, at least, in her certainty of her parents' love for her.

"Yes," she whispered.

"But you sometimes feel a bit lonely." Ruth surmised softly. "Is that it?"

Lottie nodded, again, her shoulders sagging.

"I love my friends," she murmured quietly. "And there're loads of really nice people at the caravan park... _and_ at the museum. But..."

"But it's not like having a brother or sister to play with. Or a Grandpa and Grandma to spoil you. Like everyone else seems to have?" Ruth finished, knowing her daughter so well by now that she could practically pluck the thoughts right out of her head.

Again, Lottie nodded.

Ruth sighed, tamping down treacherous tears as she continued to stroke her baby's cheek, "Well, you know that your Daddy and I are... probably quite a bit older than a lot of your friends' Mummies and Daddies?" Lottie nodded. "That means that both our own parents have gone – so no grandparents. And it also means that... a little brother or sister is really very unlikely."

It pained her to say that aloud. It wasn't as if she and Harry had been actively trying for a child. Deep down, they had known that their chances of falling pregnant again were slight, and they had also been aware of the risks it would hold for Ruth after the trauma she had endured during Lottie's birth. Yet neither of them had made a secret of their desire for a bigger family and there had been an unspoken agreement to forgo contraception years ago. But it seemed fate had decided for them. There had been no baby, and they had learnt to accept that they were simply not destined for more.

"I know," Lottie said solemnly. "I'm not a baby."

Ruth smiled sadly, "I know you're not. You're a big girl now. But you'll always be _my _big girl. And you'll never be too old for special Mummy kisses," she stated, pressing a big, wet kiss to her forehead.

Lottie permitted the kiss, but then pulled back to eye her mother earnestly, "That's why I thought of a dog though, Mummy. It could be like a furry member of the family."

Ruth pursed her lips. She had to hand it to Lottie; she made a damn good argument. It wouldn't come as a surprise to her in the least if, when she reached high school, Lottie would become an active member of the Speech and Debate team.

"We'll see," was all Ruth deigned to say.

She wouldn't commit to anything until she had talked it over with Harry. She grasped her daughter's hand once more and they continued their stroll up the beach. Lottie was quiet again, and Ruth sensed that a bit of her daughter's excitement had waned upon the embarrassing confession of her loneliness. Ruth searched for something that might perk her up again, and found herself speaking the first thing that came to mind.

"You know, Daddy used to have a dog, back when we were living in England."

Lottie's eyes widened, "Really?"

"Yes. She was a terrier. A cheeky little thing, and extremely friendly. She was quite old when I knew her, but she was still very, very bouncy. She would leap up and down like this," she grinned, over-mimicking how far little Scarlett used to jump, and successfully making Lottie giggle. "and she would lick you right on the nose. You wouldn't need a shower – she'd just lick you clean."

Lottie giggled again, "She sounds funny."

"She was. And she definitely loved your Daddy."

"What about you? Did she love you?"

Ruth's smile faltered as she recalled the first time she met Scarlett. The little dog had startled her into dropping crockery, resulting in her sobbing helplessly on Harry's kitchen floor. But then, that had been mere days after the attack. Everything had seemed like a threat back then and... She cleared her throat. No. She wouldn't go there. Not again. Move forward, Harry had said. And that's what she intended to do.

"She and I didn't have the best of starts," Ruth admitted. "but we grew to love each other in the end."

Lottie grinned, a little spring back in her step as she resumed swinging their hands back and forth.

* * *

Harry stood back, hands on hips, admiring his handiwork. The Christmas lights he had spent the vast majority of the morning stringing up amidst the fine branches of the treetops looked simply magical. Their twinkling bulbs cast a myriad of colours along the grassy ground, creating much awe among the party of five and six-year-olds. Alfie Sullivan was contentedly whizzing from light to light, quietly counting each bulb as he passed. Harry smiled. He doubted the boy had even been invited to a birthday party before, and he took great pleasure in the fact that the little lad seemed to be enjoying himself.

Harry and Jamie Peters' dad had managed to set up a marquee where all of the food had now been carefully laid out. The children seemed to be making a game out of seeing how far they could get to the food table without being spotted. Unfortunately for them, Harry had razor sharp senses. It took only the rustle of a single foot against the grass for the hairs on his neck to stand on end, and within seconds he was sending the little terrors right back to square one.

Amelia Craig was sitting in the corner of the marquee, sulking because it turned out that cake _had _been covered in fondant icing after all. Frankly, Harry couldn't give a damn about the child's temper tantrum. A Victoria Sponge filled with buttercream and jam and topped with fondant icing was _Lottie's_ favourite kind of cake – and that was all he cared about.

"Mr Knight?" a little plaintive voice called from somewhere below him.

He looked down and saw Jamie Peters tugging lightly at his belt loop.

"Yes, Jamie?" he smiled.

He liked Jamie. The boy was as skinny as a rake, with floppy jet black hair, soft brown eyes and a winning smile. He was perhaps a little boisterous; often seen sporting 'war injuries' from the death-defying stunts he attempted in the playground – for which he was frequently getting into trouble. But he was a sweet lad with a big heart, and he had been a good friend to Lottie. He had been the first one to welcome her into his friendship group at the start of school, and was very supportive of her academic gifts. More than once he had described Lottie's ability to multiply two and three digit numbers in her head as 'an awesome superpower'. Other children hadn't been quite so kind.

"When's Lottie coming?" Jamie asked politely.

Harry checked his watch. He and Ruth had agreed that she would bring Lottie for 5pm, but Ruth was nearly always a little late. Yet as he caught a glimpse of the time, he realised that she was running nearly _twenty minutes_ late. That was a new record – even for Ruth. He frowned, hoping fervently that she and Lottie were alright. No harm had come to them in their five-and-a-half years of living in Beechworth, but he still couldn't help the cold hand of dread that clasped his heart.

"Soon, Jamie," Harry replied, forcing a smile. "She'll be here very soon."

"How soon is soon?"

Harry chuckled. The boy was nearly as inquisitive as Lottie.

"Oh, in about five or ten minutes, I should imagine."

"Cool," Jamie grinned, looking down at his gleaming new watch. It had been _his_ birthday _last_ week, and for his party Lottie had asked them if she could get him a watch. Ever since, their little girl had been trying to teach her friend the time. "Err... which one is the minute hand again?"

"The long one," Harry answered, remembering the long hours Ruth had spent teaching Lottie the time herself.

"Ah, ok. Cool."

Harry thought about asking if the word 'cool' was now _cool, _but decided that that would probably make him seem like a granddad - and he already felt old. When the fathers of Lottie's friends had dropped their children off, he had not failed to notice that they were all at _least_ twenty years his junior.

Jamie seemed just about set to run off and play with the other kids when a smaller, shyer girl that Harry couldn't quite put a name to, came dashing up to him. She whispered in the boy's ear before glancing, wide-eyed up at Harry. Harry didn't know whether to laugh or wilt with shame. It was a known fact around town that Lottie Knight's dad, whilst kind to his family and friends, could sometimes have a bit of a temper. Rumours had spread of the no-nonsense way in which he dealt with misbehaving clients, and no-one wanted to get on the wrong side of him. As such, one or two of Lottie's more timid friends were a quite terrified of him.

"Sophie says that Evie's crying because Samantha accidentally tripped her up, and now Samantha and Evie aren't friends anymore," Jamie relayed aloud, clearly having no such reservations about speaking to Harry.

Harry groaned. Hadn't he foreseen that something like this would happen? Crying children at a birthday party were inevitable. And _Ruth_ had told him he would enjoy himself! He could only hope Ruth and Lottie would arrive soon. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could handle on his own.

"Alright, Sophie," he sighed resignedly. "Show me the where the girls are."

* * *

"Look at that one, Mummy!" Lottie yelled, ripping her hand from Ruth's to go tearing off across the beach.

Ruth hurried after her, and arrived just in time to see Lottie dig up a large, half-submerged whelk shell. It was filthy and weather-beaten, with a mouldy green tinge to its smooth cream coat, but still, it was vast in size, perfectly intact and a very fine specimen indeed.

"Good job, my darling! But what creature do you think it belonged to?"

"A sea snail."

"Also known as...?"

"A whelk!" Lottie answered promptly, eager to impress.

"Well done! Full marks." Ruth smiled, ruffling her hair.

Lottie grinned and held her discovery up to her face for further examination, carefully tracing along the fine ridges and removing sand from each tiny crevice. Ruth rubbed the back of her neck, sighing at the relief it gave her aching muscles. Hunching so far over to inspect Lottie's find had given her a distinct crick in the neck. She was sure she never used to be so prone to such minor ailments, but then she decided it was all part of the package of growing older. She leant back, allowing gravity and the sun's welcoming warmth to soothe her cramp, before letting her head fall gently back into place.

"Mummy, look!"

Ruth sighed, preparing herself to bend down once more. However, she was surprised to find that Lottie's interest was no longer in her shell, but something further up the beach. Her eyes followed where her daughter was pointing and found a woman, sitting curled in on herself at the edge of the sand. She looked to be somewhere in her mid-thirties, and was certainly very pretty, with shoulder-length blonde hair that complemented her perfectly pale, porcelain skin. But something didn't sit right about her. Her hunched-over stance and the way her hands kept battling to conceal her face indicated that she didn't want to be seen. And yet, she was dressed in grey cargo trousers and a plain, long-sleeve black top, a combination which made her stick out like a sore thumb amongst the other t-shirt-and-shorts-clad beach dwellers. Yes, she clearly wasn't from around Beechworth. In fact, judging from her almost translucent skin, had Ruth been a gambling woman, she would have bet that she wasn't from Australia at all.

"Mummy, she's crying." Lottie whimpered in a timid little voice.

Now that Ruth looked closely – really closely – she realised that, sure enough, Lottie was right. Even though the lady was making an admirable effort to shield her face, she couldn't hide the fact that her shoulders were shaking, and the way she kept scrubbing furiously at her eyes told Ruth all she needed to know. Ruth had cried enough tears to know when someone was at rock bottom.

Lottie's anxious gaze was yo-yoing constantly between her mother and the distressed woman, as if begging Ruth to tell her what to do. But she and her daughter had quite similar inclinations towards the suffering of others. They simply couldn't bear it. Their empathetic impulse was to try and help; to soothe the pain; to use whatever tools they carried in their somewhat limited arsenal to make the hurt go away. But they were both also incredibly cautious of strangers. Ruth had been burned once too often in the past by allowing her heart to rule her head, and had vowed never to be so emotionally naive again. Her subsequent wariness seemed to have rubbed off on Lottie. So although her baby was now staring at her, desperately seeking direction, all Ruth could do was hover uncertainly on the spot, silently vacillating between her head and her heart.

Her brain, her judgement, her spook instincts and every subtle sinew in her body were screaming at her to turn tail and run; to not get involved. After all, it was probably just the fallout of a family argument, or something similar that wasn't any of her business. Yet for some reason, her gut was telling her otherwise. Her heart was telling her to stay and help. It was irrational and inexplicable and simply plain weird, but she somehow felt drawn to this woman. She could feel her pain like a dagger to her _own_ heart. She could feel the sting of her tears like they were _hers _and hers _alone _to bear. And suddenly, like a switch had been flicked inside the deep, dark depths of Ruth's mind, she knew what she had to do.

"Come on, darling," she murmured, grabbing Lottie's hand and helping her to her feet.

Together, they marched over to the woman, who seemed too absorbed in her misery to notice their approach. In fact, she only seemed to realise once they reached her side and cast an afternoon shadow over her trembling form. She gave a loud, wet gasp and started back.

"Who are you?" she demanded, unexpectedly fierce as she abandoned her tears, leapt to her feet, and raised her fists, ready to fight.

Ruth immediately pushed a wide-eyed Lottie behind her. Only once she was sure that her child was safe did she hold up her hands to signal peace.

"It's alright, it's _alright_," she said slowly, gently, as if trying to tame a wild and frightened horse. "I don't mean you any harm."

The woman clearly didn't believe her. Her fists remained firmly clenched.

"Really. I come in peace. My daughter just saw that you were upset and... well... I wanted to see if I could help."

At that moment, Lottie peeked out from behind her mother, straining to catch another glimpse of their mysterious new acquaintance. The woman saw her, stopped and blinked – once, twice, then rapidly, as if waking from a well-induced trance. Little by little, she lowered her fists.

"Sorry," she muttered.

"It's alright. No harm done."

The woman nodded, somewhat awkwardly, but made no further effort to speak. Still, it was a relief to see some of the wildness fade from her eyes. And as it did so, Ruth was struck by a startling sense of déjà vu. Now that they weren't veiled by fear and frenzy, she realised that those brown orbs actually looked incredibly familiar. She was sure that she had seen them before; possibly even seen the lady herself. And before her logical side could scream that she was making connections where there _were_ none, she decided that she probably knew _where_ too. Home. Although she hadn't heard the woman speak at great length, her accent was unmistakably English. Exactly how much of a coincidence was it that the only other Englishwoman in Beechworth had a connection to one of its two English residents? Yet Ruth couldn't place her, and it was fairly obvious that this woman had no clue as to who_ she_ was either. Plus, she didn't seem to pose a threat, and Ruth was wholeheartedly convinced that her breakdown was genuine. Nobody could fake the depth of distress currently running rampant in this woman's eyes.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Ruth asked gently.

She fished a clean tissue from her bag and offered it to the stranger.

"I'm fine," the woman said stiffly, regarding the tissue with great suspicion.

Her voice was rough and wrecked, and Ruth could only imagine how long she must have been crying.

"Well, that's clearly not true,"

She continued to hold out the tissue, but her efforts were again met with hostility.

"Mind your own business!" the blonde snapped, folding her arms defensively.

Ruth paused, deciding a change of tack might in order.

"You're English," she observed quietly.

"So what?" came the crisp response.

"I'm also English."

There was a subtle change in the woman's heated gaze, as if this was something that had only just occurred to her. Then, almost as quickly as her walls had toppled down, she built them back up, stronger and higher than before.

"Good for you," she growled.

Ruth failed to hide a tiny, lop-sided smile. This woman reminded her a little of Harry. He sometimes had a similar tendency to lash out when hurting; to use anger and spite to disguise his baser instinct to cry. Alright, then. She would handle this the way she would handle Harry: calmly, patiently, but without being a pushover.

"The way I see it is that we're both a long way from home," she reasoned, her mind flicking briefly to London: to the buses, to the bustling crowds, to that bank by the Thames where she and Harry used to sit in silent contemplation. "And when you're a long way from home... when you're alone in a strange place, everyone needs a friend."

"How do _you _know I'm alone?" the woman asked coldly.

"Experience," was all the explanation Ruth gave.

She wasn't about to launch into the long and painful description of how she landed in Cyprus with no one and nothing but the clothes on her back. Still, she _had _been that woman, alone and crying on the beach, despairing at the world before steeling herself against it and getting on with her new life. She had survived, but she would have given anything for a friend during that lonely time. The time before she found George and Nico.

Ruth watched some of the tension leave the other woman's shoulders. Then, a marked sign of progress, the blonde's eyes flicked infinitesimally towards the tissue.

"Take it," Ruth prompted. "It's a tissue, not a grenade."

The woman hesitated, then finally accepted it, blowing hard into its folds. Once finished, she scrunched it into a ball and curled it deep into the crease of her fist.

"You can't help me, you know," she mumbled, dropping all pretence of anger.

"Try me."

The woman scoffed, clearly sceptical that this unassuming woman and her small child could understand the pain that was currently dragging her down into the dark depths of despair.

"No. Really," she muttered, dodging past them. "Just leave it alone."

She was going to leave. She was walk away. Ruth could see it in her eyes. And she panicked. She genuinely panicked, and she didn't know why. Strangers could be dangerous and untrustworthy and a threat to everything she and Harry had built. Yet for some reason, with _this _stranger_, this _poor broken soul,she just _knew_ that helping her was the right thing to do. It was like a signal, a message, a _beacon_ from the universe, burning bold and bright within her heart.

"Since you're not from around here, perhaps you need a place to stay?" she offered quickly. "My partner and I run the local Caravan Park. You'd be very welcome."

The woman stopped in her tracks. Ruth felt herself heave a sigh of relief – though again, she didn't really know why.

"It's great!" Lottie piped up out of nowhere, evidently deciding that it was now safe for her to speak. "The caravans all have a kitchen, and a sunroof, and a really comfortable bed. It's true! I've tried them all!"

Slowly, and very, very cautiously, the woman turned to face them. To be honest, Ruth would have preferred Lottie _not _to have entered into a dialogue with a stranger, but then she supposed she hadn't exactly role-modelled the situation herself.

" – And," Lottie barrelled on, slipping easily into her groove now that her shyness had been overcome. "They've all got lamps with little shells on. Mummy and I decorated them ourselves, using shells from this beach." She showed the bewildered woman her latest find. "Like this one we found today. It's a whelk. It's a bit big for a lamp, but imagine something smaller – and that's what we stick all over the lamps."

" – I – " the blonde blinked.

"_Please_ come," Lottie begged, turning her huge, imploring blue eyes on the stranger. "It's my birthday. So Daddy can even bring you some cake tonight."

The woman faltered, looking towards Ruth, who was a little nonplussed herself. Never before had Lottie seemed so comfortable around someone with whom she was not extremely well acquainted. Perhaps she too could feel an invisible tether drawing her towards this mysterious woman.

Ruth flashed the blonde a gentle smile, "As I said, if you'd be welcome to stay. "We have some vacancies at the moment."

"I haven't much money. I can't – "

"Don't worry about that, we can work something out. A free trial, perhaps?" Ruth suggested, hoping Harry wouldn't be too cross at taking in a pro bono guest.

"I don't want charity, thank you very much!" the woman snapped, her cheeks flaming.

"Good, because what I'm offering isn't charity," Ruth stated firmly. "It's _you _helping me out by putting my mind at rest."

"Ohhh," the lady laughed humourlessly. "I see what this is. You're some Bible-bashing nutter who wants to take me in like a stray just so that you can feel good about yourself! Well, sorry. I'm no-one's goodwill project!"

"That's not it at all."

"Bullshit!"

"Would you mind watching your language around my daughter?"

The blonde snorted, "Yep. Knew it. Total Bible-basher."

"No. Concerned mother," Ruth countered calmly. "Is it really so hard to believe that a person might just want to do a good turn for another?"

"Yes," the woman snapped. "Yes, it is."

"Why?"

"Nothing in this world's free. No one does _anything_ for _anyone_ without expecting something in return."

"I don't think that's quite true."

"Then clearly you've not seen the things I have."

Had Ruth not been growing more and more curious as to whom this woman was, she might have laughed at the irony of that statement.

"I've seen a fair bit in my lifetime," she reasoned slowly.

"What? What things have you seen from your comfy caravan park and your cushy lifestyle?" the blonde snarled.

Ruth paused, forcing herself to bite her tongue before she revealed more than she should. The woman mistook her silence for defeat.

"Yeah," she scoffed. "Thought so."

"Look," Ruth sighed. "I'm just worried about you."

"Well, don't be. I can do just fine on my own!"

"I don't doubt that. But let me at least _try _and – ."

"_Why?"_ the woman spat incredulously. "Why are you so _obsessed_ with helping me? You don't even know me."

"No. But I _do_ know what it's like to be on your own in a strange place with no money or belongings but one hell of a lot of baggage. And I _do_ know what it is to reach the end of your tether and not know where to turn," Ruth argued, her eyes unblinking, her voice unwavering.

_That_ captured the blonde's attention. Her fiery temper seemed to simmer for a moment, before gradually fizzling down into nothingness. Her shoulders sagged and she exhaled a slow, shaky breath. And for the first time, Ruth saw not the weary woman or the fierce fighter, but a girl – just a girl – young and lost and alone and so very, very frightened.

"Come. Please." The older woman murmured softly. "Even if it's just for tonight. I promise I won't pump you for information. Your business can stay your own. It's just... at least you'd have a safe space to think and rest."

Lottie was clearly confused. Ruth's words about baggage and reaching the end of some sort of tether made hardly any sense to her. Nevertheless, she was pleased that her mother seemed to be getting through to their potential guest. She flashed a charming smile that could only have been learnt from Harry, and blinked beseechingly up at the woman.

"_Please_ come. It's my party so there'll be Christmas lights up in the trees. It'll look really beautiful."

Ruth finally tore her gaze from the stranger and tickled her daughter lightly under the ribs, "Excuse me, cheeky, how do_ you_ know there'll be Christmas lights?"

"Because there're _always _Christmas lights up on my birthday," Lottie answered with a devilish grin. "And also... I saw Daddy getting the Christmas lights out this morning."

Ruth rolled her eyes and tickled her again, prompting a long, increasingly hysterical bout of giggles. She only stopped after remembering the awful purplish colour Lottie had turned that morning. When she turned back to the woman, she saw, much to her delight and dismay... that she was smiling. Actually smiling. And she had a very beautiful smile indeed.

"You seem to have your hands full there," the blonde commented quietly.

Ruth ruffled Lottie's hair, "Don't I know it."

Their acquaintance seemed slightly easier now, calmer; less likely to fly off the handle at the first proffer of friendship. Ruth decided to take a gamble and held out her hand.

"I'm...Ru –" she winced, only just stopping herself in time. "Rebecca."

There was a distinct hesitation before the woman shook her hand, "Ava. I'm Ava."

Ruth's inner spook told her that this was probably a false name, but then, _she_ hadn't exactly been the most truthful of people either. Perhaps that put them on an even footing. And least they had a name by which to call one another.

"I'm Lottie!" Lottie grinned, copying her mother and sticking out her hand.

Ava chuckled and shook it, "Nice to meet you, Lottie."

"_Are _you staying at the Caravan Park?" the little girl pressed.

Ava's eyes strayed uncertainly to Ruth's, "I... " she sighed, as if relinquishing all resolve inside of her. "Yes... I suppose. Just... just for a night or two... If that's alright?"

Ruth smiled warmly, "Of course it is. I wouldn't have offered if it wasn't."

Lottie beamed and blinked up at Ruth, "Do you think Daddy will have sorted all the guests out yet so we can go home?"

Ruth laughed and tweaked Lottie's nose before checking her watch. Her eyes widened. It was 5:28pm! She had completely lost track of time whilst dealing with Ava and now they were almost half an hour late. She thought of Harry left on his own with a bunch of screaming six-year-olds – for longer than duty required. Oh dear. Harry was _not _going to be pleased.

* * *

**Hmm... who's the mysterious stranger? And why is she running? Thank you Wolfdrum, Gregoriana and Alias47 for your reviews - they made my day. I hope people are enjoying the story. Next chapter coming soon. All the best x**


	4. Chapter 4: The Discovery

"Daddy!" Lottie squealed, as she and Ruth hurried towards the marquee.

Harry, who had been fixing yet another tedious squabble, glanced up and heaved a heavy sigh of relief. They were alright. They were okay. He could breathe now. Despite putting on a brave face for the sake of the children, his heart had been absolutely racing with worry. His girls were nearly fifty minutes late and it had taken a significant amount of emotional agility for him to not give way to panic. Nevertheless, he had been powerless to stop that mental list from building up in his mind; the list of all the calamities that might have occurred; all the things that might have happened to them. He had just been on the verge of sending out a search party when they arrived.

"Squirt!" he greeted, picking her up and holding her close.

"It looks beautiful, Daddy!" Lottie grinned, blinking up at the twinkling fairy lights.

"Why thank you, Squirt," Harry smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead and setting her gently back down. "Nice of you to show up... in the end."

It wasn't hard to detect the recrimination in his voice and Ruth offered him an apologetic smile.

"Sorry we're late. We had a... um... well, an interesting experience at the beach."

"Oh?" Harry prompted, his curiosity piqued.

"We... we picked up a new guest," Ruth murmured.

"Ava," Lottie informed him matter-of-factly. "We put her in Caravan Five so she could get settled in."

Harry noted that Ruth was distinctly avoiding his eyes.

"And why do I get the feeling that this 'Ava' isn't exactly good news?" he asked suspiciously. "What's wrong with her?"

"We don't know what's wrong with her," Lottie supplied brightly, with all the innocence of the six-year-old child that she was. "She wouldn't tell us."

And before anyone could say anything else, she launched into the lengthy tale of how she and Ruth had encountered this mysterious stranger on the beach, starting with how the woman had been upset, then angry, then how it turned out she was English and thus a long way from home, and ending with how Ruth had offered her a place to stay.

For a moment, Harry just stared at Ruth, his mouth open, his eyebrows slowly knotting in outrage. What on earth was she thinking? How could Ruth – someone who was usually so careful, so meticulous in her interactions with others – have been so reckless? They had discussed their policy regarding guests a _thousand times_. They were to only accept them if they had valid identification, no direct links to their former lives, and if _they _came to _them_. Admitting a stranger, a woman from their homestead, who carried no solid proof of ID, was absolute insanity!

"Squirt, go and play with Jamie," he instructed quietly. "I think he wants to give you his present."

Lottie lit up at the prospect of more presents and scuttled off to the corner of the marquee, where Jamie and a few other boys were attempting to do a one-armed handstand.

Ruth closed her eyes, attempting to block out the burning intensity of Harry's glare. It didn't work. She could still feel his piercing gaze searing through her eyelids.

"Ruth – "

"I know," she sighed, finally summoning the courage to look at him. His stare held a powerful mixture of anger, astonishment, and... fear. Yes. Fear.

"You know the risks," he berated softly. "That woman could have been... could _be _anyone. Who knows what could have happened on that beach. And with Lottie there too."

"I know, I know. But if you'd seen her sitting there sobbing into the sand, I doubt you could've walked away either."

"And what if she was _relying_ on someone's bleeding heart?" Harry hissed, perhaps a little harsher than he had intended. "Or worse still, _your _bleeding heart. For all you know, it could have been a honey trap."

"My instincts told me it wasn't."

Harry scoffed, passing a weary hand across his eyes. He didn't need to speak any words for Ruth to understand what that meant, and she bristled at the sheer passive aggressiveness of his stance.

"Right," she nodded stiffly. "I see. Well. Thanks for your confidence."

Harry groaned. This conversation really wasn't heading in the right direction. He took a few much-needed seconds to compose himself; to steady his emotions before their little tiff escalated into a full-blown row. He hated rowing with Ruth. It didn't happen often, but when it did it left them both feeling like crap. And he didn't want that. For either of them. Especially not on Lottie's birthday. He sighed and moved his hands to her upper arms, rubbing them slowly, reassuringly.

"It's not that I don't trust your instincts – it's not that," he murmured softly.

Ruth gave a humourless smile, "That's funny, because that's exactly what it sounds like."

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but a sudden raucous shriek from a nearby child reminded him that they were actually extremely exposed in such a public setting. This conversation needed to be resolved privately. And it needed to be done now. He glanced around, checking for prying eyes and wigging ears. Once he was confident that they weren't under scrutiny, and that Jamie Peters' father was watching over the children, he gently tugged Ruth back behind the marquee, out of sight.

"I'm just a little worried, Ruth," he explained, trying hard to remain patient.

"Weren't you telling me just this morning to move forward? To try not to see ghosts of the past everywhere I turn?"

"Yes, but... this... this isn't like you. Inviting an Englishwoman with no formal identification to stay? For all we know she could be Five... or Six... or worse."

"Says the man who told me at breakfast that no one would find us here."

"Ruth –"

"I don't think she was Five or Six or... or anything remotely dangerous. She didn't seem to recognise me."

"That doesn't tell us anything," Harry grumbled. "Many intelligence officers are good actors. And many terrorists are even better."

"I know that. _Realistically_ I know that," Ruth admitted, frustrated by her inability to communicate what exactly she had felt down on the beach. "But there was something... I don't know... I can't explain it. Honestly, I don't know how or why, but I could just feel it in my heart that this woman, whoever she is, needed help. I couldn't just leave her there. She looked so lost and... " she saw the disbelieving frown permeating Harry's features and trailed off with a lame shrug. "I don't know. I just... remembered what it was like to be in her position... to be alone in a strange place with nothing and no one but your own worst fears and I... I _had_ to help."

Harry's gaze softened. He suddenly found himself needing to touch her, to be close to her, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his, and he took her hand, entwining their fingers together.

"Ruth – "

"Please don't say I'm naive," she pleaded softly.

Harry chuckled in spite of himself, "I wasn't going to say that."

"Then what? You're doing your unhappy pout again."

"I don't pout," he insisted.

"You should have that tattooed on your forehead."

Harry snorted, shaking his head at this bloody impossible woman, because damn it, how could he stay annoyed with her when she made him smile so much.

"Then _you_ should have 'I'm not naive' tattooed on yours."

Ruth gave a wan smile, "I'm not though, Harry. Naive, I mean. Please. _Trust_ me on this. Something's wrong with this woman and... I think she needs help."

Harry stared doubtfully into those hypnotic blue eyes, willing himself to be strong enough to deny her; to follow through with his own spook instincts, and to remember the wealth of experience he had which proved that trusting strangers rarely led to anything good. However, in the end – just like Ruth with this mysterious stranger – his heart ruled over his head.

"Alright," he conceded reluctantly. "Alright, I'll leave it be – for now."

Ruth's smile widened and she reached up to peck him on the lips, "Thank you."

"But we'll need to be extra vigilant. And I want to see her for myself after the party. If I think she's a threat she'll need to leave. _Immediately_."

"Of course," Ruth nodded, though she remained quietly confident that her own assessment was correct.

"And even if she _does_ check out, she'll need to pay upfront like everyone else."

Ruth lowered her eyes again. _Oh dear_.

"Ruth?" Harry frowned, before realising what exactly her silence meant. "Oh Ruth, you didn't."

"I know," she muttered, staring at her feet like a chastised schoolgirl.

"Pro-bono?!"

"She hardly had any money – "

"So she _said_!" Harry spluttered, tugging his hand from Ruth's to fold his arms stubbornly across his chest. "Come on, Ruth. Wake up. She's taking you for a ride. She's a fraud _as well_ as a threat."

"I know what it seems like. But my gut is telling me – "

"You're willing to risk our daughter's safety on a_ gut feeling_?" Harry snapped.

Ruth took a step back, stunned and feeling rather as though she had just been slapped. Within a split second, her cheeks were flaming red, fury flashing dangerously in her gleaming eyes. Harry watched as they darkened from an ocean blue to a very, very stormy grey, and knew immediately that he had gone too far.

"That's... that's not fair, Harry. That's _not_ fair! I'd never put Lottie at risk. _Never_. I wouldn't even _suggest _it if I wasn't absolutely _convinced_ that this woman isn't a threat."

Ruth winced, realising that her voice may have carried a little too loudly. She quickly quietened and ducked her head, feeling unable to look at him in that moment.

There was an awkward silence, filled only by tiny, high-pitched shrieks of laughter as the children continued to play, blissfully unaware of the argument raging behind the marquee. Harry and Ruth could just about to make out Lottie's voice amongst the melee, praising Jamie for his near-perfect cartwheel. Ruth sucked in a soothing breath, whilst Harry exhaled alongside her, fumbling for the right words.

"I... I know," he said eventually. "I know that, sweetheart."

He stepped forward and touched a tentative finger to her wrist. When she didn't shrug him off or move to walk away, he drifted his hand further up her arm, laying it to rest on the small of her back. He could feel the tension thrumming through her; the pent-up anger at the insinuation that she'd knowingly invite someone into their fold that might hurt their beloved daughter. Now that he thought about it, the accusation sounded ridiculous to him. Ruth loved that little girl more than life itself. She'd walk through the fires of hell before she let anything happen to her. So then, that spoke volumes about the amount of trust she held in this total stranger.

He eased his other hand around her back and drew her gently into the warmth of his embrace. Stiff but yielding, she allowed herself to be guided. After a moment, she rested her forehead against the column of his throat, breathing in the mesmeric musk of his aftershave.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I know you'd never knowingly put Lottie at risk."

There was another pause and then slowly, ever so slowly, he felt the tension ooze from Ruth's body like a gently deflating balloon. She lifted her arms and tucked them neatly around his middle, rubbing up and down his back to communicate that there were no hard feelings.

"And I'm sorry I didn't confer with you," she whispered back. "I should have called."

Harry gave a half-shrug and leant back to look into her eyes. He was incredibly relieved to see that they had returned to that ocean blue colour he so dearly loved

"It's done now. And we'll deal with it... whatever may happen."

"_Do_ you think I'm naive?" Ruth asked, doubt suddenly clouding her features.

Harry considered the revelations that had just been brought to him, and measured them side by side with how Ruth was normally so cautious of strangers. Then he recalled all the previous moments Ruth's gut instincts had saved their necks... _his_ neck, and quite often a good quantity of the population's necks. And most of those times he had questioned her judgement. Over the last six years, he had learnt to trust in her without question. All they had had were each other, and they had needed that trust in order for their relationship to survive. And now, he needed to maintain that same level of trust.

"Not naive, no," he said honestly.

"Mad, then."

Harry chuckled, "Maybe a little mad. But then you've _always _been bonkers. Bonkers but brilliant."

Ruth smiled self-deprecatingly.

"But above all," Harry murmured. "I think you have a big heart. And that's not a bad thing."

"Once upon a time you'd have said it _was_," Ruth reminded him, a hint of cheek penetrating her bashful smile. "You'd have said that our feelings compromise our judgement."

Harry rolled his eyes, "Once upon a time, I wouldn't have done this..."

And he suddenly dipped her backwards at the waist, making her squeak. She didn't have a chance to say anything else before he covered her lips with his, kissing her ardently beneath the fairy lights. Ruth didn't complain. There, cradled in Harry's arms, it was hard to believe that had even argued at all. She sighed happily and lost herself in the kiss, granting his tongue access as it tangled with her own.

"Ewwww!" a tiny voice exclaimed from behind them, causing them both to spring apart.

They turned to see a gang of horrified children, headed by Lottie and Jamie, peering round the edge of the marquee. Lottie was used to seeing her parents immersed in such deep displays of affection, but she didn't look all that thrilled to have her friends catch them lip-locked at her birthday party.

"Mr Knight!" Jamie cried, wide-eyed and thoroughly disgusted. "You were eating her face!"

There were further expressions of revulsion from some of the other children, whilst Lottie looked torn between amusement and wanting to sink into a hole in the ground. Harry glanced at Ruth. Her expression was similar to her daughter's, though her cheeks were flushed scarlet and she seemed to be angling towards the more mortified state of emotion. He raised her up to stand properly on her feet and decided that acting like a guilty teenager would only exacerbate the situation. Instead, he held up an authoritative hand, and walked towards the children, shooing them away from the side of the tent.

"Alright, alright!" he laughed. "On that note, shall we all finally eat?"

This, of course, led the children to completely forget their disgust as they were tempted by the lure of the buffet. The braver children, like Lottie, Jamie and their little band of misfits were the ones to speak up, babbling excitedly about what they were going to eat.

"I can't wait! I'm so hungry I thought I was going to _die_!" Jamie announced dramatically.

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" Harry grinned, ruffling the boy's hair.

Ruth watched Harry lead Lottie and the boys up ahead, unable to help the adoring smile that fell across her face.

"M-Mrs Knight?"

Ruth looked down and saw that Sophie May plus a lot of the other quieter children had hung back, wanting to walk with _her _as opposed to Harry. At that moment, as she observed Harry, lion of the Grid, interacting so tenderly with the children, she couldn't _remotely_ see what was so frightening about him. Still, she flashed them a gentle smile and took the hands of the two nearest girls before following on behind.

* * *

"That was the best birthday _ever_!" Lottie announced, as they finally dragged themselves inside.

Her cheeks were pink from all the overzealous games of Tiggy, and she was still buzzing with delight that even Alfie Sullivan had joined in the final game.

Harry and Ruth were utterly exhausted. They had been up since before dawn – not that they regretted it. Moments stolen together in bed were getting rarer as Lottie got older, and they tried to make the most of it. However, their early rise and the heat of the day, combined with taking charge of twenty young children for hours and hours meant that they were far too tired to take down the marquee and fairy lights. Most of the leftover food had been claimed, so all that really needed doing that night was litter-picking and washing-up. They could live with that.

But for now, they needed to put their daughter to bed. That was going to be a challenge in itself as she still seemed too wired to go to sleep. She had done so much running around that they were confident that once her head hit the pillow, she would be out like a light. But it was getting her to lie down in the first place that was going to be the tricky part.

"Alfie seemed to have a really good time, didn't he?" Lottie gushed.

"He did, darling," Ruth agreed. She noticed that Lottie's school things were still strewn haphazardly across the floor – dumped there in their haste to get to the party. "Can you come and hang up your bag and cardigan, please? We don't want to be tripping over them."

Lottie did as she was told, still grinning from ear to ear. She hummed happily to herself, standing on tiptoes to hang her stuff on the designated hook by the door. As she did so, a thought suddenly occurred to her.

"Daddy! The Measuring Wall!" she gasped.

Harry had collapsed into an armchair, his back aching, his limbs creaking, and his mind well and truly turned to mush. He had been busy weighing up the pros and cons of going to sleep right there and then when his daughter spoke, and so it took him a good few seconds to follow her train of thought. Every birthday since they had moved in, he had stood Lottie against the wall in her room and marked her height. This was a tradition that Lottie greatly looked forward to, as her small stature was often a source of frustration for her. Harry saw the same eagerness glowing in Lottie's eyes now and sighed, reluctantly inching his way towards the edge of the armchair.

"Alright then, Squirt," he agreed. "If you go and change into your pyjamas and brush your teeth, I'll come and measure you."

"Okay," Lottie grinned.

She careered out of the room and up the stairs, whilst Harry, envious of her vigour, tried to summon the will to stand.

"How on earth does she have that much energy?" he groaned.

"Don't ask me," Ruth shrugged, trudging over to where he sat.

It felt as though every muscle, every fibre; every bone in her body had been stretched to its full potential. She somehow doubted that they would be having a Round Three tonight. Bed was an alluring thought, but sleep was so much more enticing right now. Still, work had to be done before they could crawl under the sheets. She caught hold of Harry's hands and hauled him to his feet.

"Come on you," she coaxed gently, squeezing his bicep as she propelled him towards the door. "Our daughter's waiting."

Harry mumbled a few grouchy complaints under his breath but managed to stumble up the stairs without issue. She was just listening to his weary footfall on the landing when there was a knock at the door.

Ruth frowned, wondering who it could be. They weren't expecting anyone. Oh – perhaps one of the children had forgotten something. There was always that one scatterbrained child who left something behind.

She moved to the door as quickly as her aching muscles could carry her. The person standing on the doorstep wasn't a child.

"Ava," she greeted, unable to disguise the surprise in her voice.

"I... hope I'm not intruding."

She was twisting her hands together awkwardly, and even though she was slightly taller than Ruth, she seemed somehow smaller against the blackened backdrop of the night.

"No. No, of course not. Come in."

Ava continued to hover uncertainly, and Ruth had to physically beckon the woman inside before they ended up standing there all night.

"I'm... I'm sorry to bother you," the blonde murmured, ducking her head to talk to her feet, and Ruth couldn't help but think what a far-cry this demure little creature was from the fiery spitfire she had met on the beach.

"It's no bother at all," Ruth assured her. "What can I do for you?"

"Er... well, you said you keep spare lightbulbs for the caravans. The one in Five's blown. I was wondering if –"

"Oh! Yes, of course. Follow me."

She led the younger woman through the hall and into the kitchen, where she began rifling through their 'Spare Parts' cupboard. She found the right wattage and handed Ava a couple of bulbs.

"There you are. And there's a spare, in case it blows again."

"Thank you," Ava awarded her a brief but sincere smile. "And thanks again for... well... you know..."

"No problem."

Now that she properly studied this woman again; saw the pale pallor to her gaunt face, and the sadness in her hazel eyes, she knew that she had made the right decision. And she was absolutely positive that Harry was _wrong_ about her being a potential threat.

"Do you want to stay for some tea?" she found herself asking.

"No. No, it's alright," the blonde quickly declined. "I'm... I'm quite tired."

Ruth gave a breathy chuckle, wiping a hand across her weary eyes, "Yeah, I know the feeling."

"She ran rings round you, did she?"

"And more. But at least she enjoyed herself."

"It sounded like you were all having a good time."

"Oh, God. Sorry," Ruth grimaced. "I hope we didn't disturb you."

"No, it's fine."

"We warned all the other guests a few days ago, so they knew what to expect. You just had it foisted on you."

"Honestly, it's fine," Ava smiled and Ruth noticed again how pretty her smile was, and how, like her eyes, it seemed so oddly familiar. "I liked the noise. Silence can be..."

"Deafening?" Ruth suggested, recalling those first few weeks on the run where background noise had been a blissful release from the lonely silence.

"... E-Exactly."

There was an expression of wonderment upon Ava's face, as if she was trying to work out how exactly this small, unassuming mother on the beach could understand so much of what was going on inside her head. If only she knew, Ruth thought wryly.

At that moment, they heard pounding footsteps on the stairs, and Ava visibly jumped, jostled from her thoughts. Then, with all the force of a tumultuous tornado, Lottie came bursting into the room, riding high on yet another tide of wild enthusiasm.

"Mummy, I'm three foot six!" she squealed. "That's two inches more than last year!"

Ruth laughed, kissing the top of her head and drawing her in for a hug, "What did I tell you? You're getting to be my big girl!"

Lottie revelled in their embrace for a second, but pulled back as she noticed the other person in the room.

"Ava!" she grinned, giving the blonde a friendly little wave.

"Hi, Lottie," Ava smiled. She nodded towards the stuffed cow clutched tightly in Lottie's hand. "Who's this?"

"His name's Moo," Lottie revealed, suddenly turning shy.

Perhaps she was a little embarrassed that someone other than her mother and father had seen her clutching her cuddly friend, because she subtly started to inch herself behind Ruth. Ruth, however, was relieved to see that Ava didn't laugh or comment on this. She merely maintained her sweet smile.

"That's a good name. I used to have a cuddly rabbit called Blue."

Lottie reappeared from her hiding place, "Really?"

"Yes. My dad bought her for me. I used to carry her everywhere when I was your age."

"Was she actually blue?"

"Yes, she was. She was the colour of the sky. But over the years, most of her fur fell out, so I guess she wasn't that blue in the end."

"Do you still have her?"

Ava's face grew sad again, her manner withdrawn and her smile almost bitter, "No. No, I don't have her anymore."

Lottie paused, considering her words, "I have _lots _of toys. You can have one of _them_, if you like?"

Ruth's heart practically melted at this declaration, for she knew how much Lottie adored her stuffed animals. To offer one to this woman must mean that her daughter considered her really quite special.

Ava seemed to realise this too, because her gaze softened, "Thank you. That's really kind of you, Lottie. But I won't take your toys from you. You need them much more than I do."

"I don't mind," Lottie insisted, and despite knowing what a wrench it would be for her daughter, Ruth could see that she genuinely meant it. By God, but she loved this dear, sweet little girl.

"Really, Lottie. I'm okay," Ava smiled. "But thank you. It was a lovely thought."

Lottie grinned back, "Do you want some cake, then? There's loads left."

Ava glanced at Ruth, who winked and shrugged as if to say 'Go on'.

"Alright, then," the blonde agreed. "How could I turn down a piece of cake?"

Eager as ever to please, Lottie promptly fled to the kitchen counter to fetch one of the wrapped-up pieces of cake. She carried it carefully over to her newfound friend and dropped it neatly into the palm of her hand.

"Thank you."

Their peace was disturbed by the sudden thump of another, heavier set of footsteps on the stairs, and Ava jumped again, nearly dropping her cake.

"It's alright," Ruth assured her with a gentle smile. "It's just my partner."

"Lottie, where have you run off to now?!" Harry's voice echoed through the house, almost perfectly on cue.

However, this did not seem to soothe Ava's anxiety at all. She might have seemed a little tense before, but now she looked... well, Ruth couldn't think of any other word for it than _terrified_. She stood there, frozen, stricken and statuesque, cake in one hand, lightbulbs in the other, her eyes wide and wild whilst her face turned chalk white.

"Ava, are you alright?" Ruth frowned, wondering if it was better to approach the woman to offer comfort, or keep her distance.

She felt Lottie back up towards her, grasping for her hand and squeezing as if to ask whether Ava's sudden change in manner was _her_ fault. Just then, Harry entered the kitchen, searching for his AWOL daughter. It didn't take him long to spot Lottie cowering beside her mother. He was by her side in a second, concern evident in his eyes.

"Squirt, what's wrong?"

He followed his daughter's gaze and felt the bottom immediately drop out of his stomach. Like their guest, he simply stood there for a moment, seemingly frozen in time. He blinked slowly, then rapidly, as if he couldn't quite believe the sight lay before him.

"C-Catherine?" he stuttered.

'Dad?" Ava murmured faintly.

And before anyone could say anything else, the blonde's eyes rolled into the back of her head and she fainted dead on the spot.

* * *

Many thanks to fcpatechies, wolfdrum and Gregoriana for your reviews. Your support makes all the hard work worth it. All the best x


	5. Chapter 5: The Reunion

Harry only just managed to catch her before she hit the floor. He clasped her to his chest and lowered her carefully down to the ground, cradling the back of her head with his hand until he felt Ruth shove a cushion into his grasp. He fumbled with it for a moment, still trying to come to terms with the shock of it all. Catherine. Catherine, his daughter, his eldest child – was here, in Beechworth... in their house. What on earth was she doing here? How had she found them? How was this even possible? How... just _how?_

In the ensuing chaos, there seemed to be an overwhelming flurry of noise. He could hear poor little Lottie, confused and frightened; demanding to know in a heartbreakingly small voice what exactly was going on. Harry didn't feel capable of answering, for he himself had no idea. Ruth appeared to be trying her best to reassure their daughter, but even _her_ voice was shaky, uncertain and riddled with shock.

"Is... is that who I think it is?" he heard her ask.

"It's Catherine," he confirmed weakly, casting the briefest of glances at her, trying to communicate just how lost he felt in that moment. "It's my... my..."

His eyes fell on Lottie, who seemed to be growing more and more distressed, her ocean eyes filling with tiny treacherous tears. Oh God. How was he going to explain all this? To _either_ of his children. Ruth clearly saw the fear in his face because all traces of her own alarm immediately evaporated, replaced by a dogged determination. Within seconds, she was taking charge of the situation, hurrying to the sink, filling a glass with water and shoving it into Harry's hand. Then she snatched away two lightbulbs and a piece of cake which were somehow clutched in each of Catherine's hands, before swooping down and picking up a weeping Lottie.

"Come on, my darling. Let's go upstairs," she murmured, wiping away her baby's tears as she carried her towards the door.

"But what's wrong with her?" Lottie sniffed, blinking fearfully at Catherine's prone form. "And why did she call Daddy 'Dad'?"

"She's alright, darling. She's just fainted, that's all. She'll be fine in a little while."

"But – "

Ruth hushed her gently and proceeded to carry her from the room. Harry was grateful for the intervention. He wasn't sure he could deal with _both_ his daughters at once – not right now. He closed his eyes, his heart quietly shredding as he heard Lottie's cries echo all the way up the stairs. Then, with a strength he really didn't feel, he braced himself for what was about to come, re-opened his eyes and stared at his eldest child.

She didn't look that much different from when he last saw her, a few weeks before the Albany fiasco. Her hair was perhaps a little lighter, dyed an even heavier shade of blonde in an attempt to mask the hints of natural reddish-brown. And as he traced a trembling finger along her cheekbone, he noticed that her face was a little more lined than before – though whether they were laugh lines or worry lines, he couldn't really tell. Her grey cargo trousers were caked in sand and mud, and her dark black top, which smelled as though it hadn't been changed in a good few days, contrasted painfully with her sickly pale face.

He wondered if she might be chilly, and moved to fetch a blanket from the living room. However, just as he tried to stand, he saw her eyelids begin to twitch.

"Catherine?" he murmured softly, kneeling back down and stroking his finger a little faster across the plane of her cheek, gently teasing the skin to try and wake her.

Catherine groaned, her head lolling from side to side as she gradually came back to herself.

"Catherine?" he prompted again, a little louder this time.

She finally opened her eyes and blinked confusedly at the ceiling. Harry said nothing, part of him not wanting to rush her, and the other part – the cowardly part – too afraid to find out what would happen next. Yet it was inevitable that her eyes would eventually land on him, and when they did, he knew immediately that this reunion was _not _going to go well. He watched the sheer terror and confusion return in full force. Catherine pushed herself up and scrambled backwards, her eyes wide and wild, her breathing staggered.

"What... what are you...? How – _how _are you here?" she stammered. "You can't be here. You're dead – "

"Catherine – "

"No... no, no, no, no," she rambled, shaking her head so quickly he feared she might pull something.

"Take it easy," he tried to advise. "You've just fainted. Don't move your head so much," He held out the glass of water Ruth had given him. "Here. Drink this."

Catherine's eyes grew wider still. She ignored the water and simply focused on Harry's reddening face, raking in every minute detail: every hair, every blotch, every uneven bump. Her own face was pale and sickly-looking. Its chalk-white tone gave off the distinct impression that she had just seen a ghost – which in some respects, Harry guessed – she had.

"I... I went to your funeral! Y-Y-You're dead. You drove into the fucking Thames! How can you be here?" she ranted, becoming increasingly hysterical as huge fat tears trickled helplessly down her cheeks. "You _can't _be here!"

Harry didn't reply. He just knelt there, head bowed; feeling small and feeble and ashamed and completely at a loss. What could he say to the child – no, the woman – who had thought him dead for six years; who had grieved his loss, and had had to live with the lie that her father had died a traitor? What could he say to the daughter he had left behind? There was nothing. There wasn't a single thing he could say that would make that sore better, or excuse what he had done. Catherine and Graham had been the elephants in the room during these last six years of bliss; the constant shadows in the back of his mind reminding him that whilst he had a partner and a daughter who he loved so very, very much, his family was incomplete. His _heart_ was incomplete.

His silence clearly wasn't an acceptable answer to Catherine, who had always been a tempestuous young woman, and, like her mother, impatient when it came to Harry's failings as a father. Without warning, she suddenly launched herself off the floor and started aiming punches – hard, painful, bruising punches – at whatever part of his anatomy she could reach.

"You bastard! You fucking BASTARD! YOU LYING... DECEITFUL... FUCKING _PRICK_!" she shrieked, barely taking a breath as she drove her fists into his chest again and again and again, without reprieve.

The glass of water was knocked from his hand, and sent shattering across the floor, its contents splaying out over the cold stone tiles. For a moment, Harry just took the blows, one after the other after the other. He knew he would ache tomorrow, but he also knew that he deserved each and every strike. It wasn't until it dawned on him that _Catherine_ might actually hurt herself that he moved to stop her, catching hold of her wrists and trapping them forcefully again their chests as he pulled her into his strong embrace.

But Catherine was a fighter in every sense of the word, and wouldn't allow herself to be consoled so easily. She kept screaming and squirming and straining in his arms in a wild attempt to break free. When she realised she was fighting a losing battle, she tried to use her knees, her feet – anything that would likely cause him a fraction of the pain he had caused her.

"Catherine," he pleaded, sucking in a pained breath as her knee collided with his groin.

Thankfully, his daughter's movements seemed to be slowing, exhaustion winning over her need for revenge. She managed to screech out one last "You BASTARD!" before finally giving in, her voice completely wrecked. She collapsed against him, spent. And Harry didn't know what else to do but hold her; rock her with him, just like he used to do when she was a baby.

She wasn't sobbing. She too far gone for that. She just buried her head in his shoulder and howled out her rage into the fabric of his shirt. Each muffled wail sent daggers into his already battered heart. He found himself wishing for the billionth time in six years that he had just told her the truth. It could have been possible, couldn't it? He had had the means to let her know. He could have asked Malcolm, who he contacted that one time with a postcard, to tell her the truth. Or he could have asked Tom, before they parted ways in Amsterdam. But he didn't. _Why _didn't he? He had told himself that it was because it was too risky – for everyone involved. But that was only half the reason. The other half was that he hadn't wanted his two eldest children to think he abandoned them. Better that they believed him dead than that he abandoned them. But, he _had _abandoned them hadn't he? He had. And he would never forgive himself for that. He could try all he liked to be the doting father to Lottie, but that would never disguise or make up for the brokenness of his relationship with Catherine and Graham.

"I'm sorry," he murmured miserably against her temple. "I'm so sorry."

Catherine barely responded; simply ground out another frustrated howl into his shoulder. And at that moment, however guilty it made him feel, he was rather glad that she was too tired to fight him on this. He revelled in the feel of her in his arms; his eldest child, his first born – the daughter he didn't think he'd ever get to see again – was here. And though she was fierce and frenzied and every bit as passionate as he remembered her, she had become such a beautiful young woman.

"I love you," he whispered.

And the moment was gone.

With surprising agility given how exhausted she was, Catherine used her elbows to force herself free; shoving him away with such vigour that he nearly fell over backwards.

"Don't," she warned hollowly, her voice dangerously quiet. "You don't get to say that to me."

"It's true," he insisted, but his plea sounded pathetic even to his own ears.

Catherine stared at him for a second, incredulity heavy in her eyes. Then she blinked and shook her head.

"I... I can't deal with this," she muttered, clambering unsteadily to her feet.

"Catherine – " Harry pleaded, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice as he too hoisted himself up.

Alas, Catherine didn't pay heed to his pleas. She darted from the kitchen, refusing to look back. Harry followed, the shards of broken glass crunching mercilessly beneath his feet.

"Catherine, please... _wait_," he begged, stumbling to a halt behind her as she reached the front door. "_Please_... can we just _talk_?"

The blonde laughed scornfully, an ugly, hard sound that just didn't match up to her sweet features.

"Oho, so _now_ you want to talk? Six years. Six _years_ you let me think... let me _believe_ you were... were..." she swallowed, and shook her head again, as if unable to even fully comprehend what was happening. "Not a word from you in those six years. Not a _fucking_ word to let me know you were still alive. And now you want to... Well guess what? Now _I _don't want to talk."

Harry frowned, utterly confused, "But surely... I thought... I thought you came to..." he groaned, frustrated by his inarticulacy. "I thought you _came_ here to – "

Catherine laughed a second, scornful scoff, "_That's_ what you think?! You think I came here for _you_?! Well, typical. It always _was_ about _you_. You and your dick and your fancy women – you selfish prick!"

She wrenched open the door and flounced outside, storming across the grounds with a seemingly rejuvenated energy. Harry didn't even hesitate. He hurried after her, running as quickly as his aching legs would carry him.

"Catherine, wait. I... I don't understand – "

"No, you never _did_!" Catherine spat over her shoulder. "If you're so curious to know how I ended up in your fucking front room, why don't you ask your new fancy woman?!"

She didn't even stop to look at him as she said that, and eventually she strayed beyond the perimeters of the Caravan Park, her shadow fading into the black.

"Catherine!" he called desperately, but this time there was no answer.

Harry hesitated, wondering if he should follow her. Beechworth was as safe a small town as any, and Catherine could more than handle herself. But that wouldn't stop him from worrying. Plus she'd fainted not fifteen minutes ago; it was hardly advisable for her to go running off. But at the same time, he knew she wouldn't thank him for following her. Not when she was in such a state. She clearly wanted to be on her own, and with every step he took; every sentence he uttered, he only seemed to make things worse. He hadn't thought it possible to go down any further in Catherine's estimation. Clearly he had been wrong.

He stopped and stood haplessly in the warm night air, staring at the spot where his daughter had vanished. A light breeze tickled the tips of his ears, ruffling through what little locks remained on his balding head. He blamed this breeze for the bitter tears dribbling slowly down his face. It was easier that way.

It was a mix of confusion and blind shock that carried him back across the grass, past the rows of static caravans and into the warmth of the cottage. Without quite knowing what he was doing, he shut the door, slid the bolt across and collapsed on bottom stair, his head hidden in his hands. The tears were coming thick and fast now, and he forced himself to take deep, shuddering breaths in a bid to calm himself. He couldn't be like this when he faced Lottie. He couldn't.

He heard creaking on the landing, then tentative footsteps on the stairs. The sounds grew louder and louder; closer and closer, until he felt someone sit down beside him. There was only one person it could possibly be. He had cried dozens of times in her presence by now, and yet, for some reason, he continued to hide his face in his hands, willing the remnants of his tears away.

"Harry," came a tender whisper, and that voice – oh, that voice – soft, and gentle, and warm and so full of a love that he really didn't feel he deserved right now; it only made him want to weep harder.

He swiped a hand under his nose, trying to stem the ugly dribble that had come part and parcel with his tears. Then he cleared his throat, praying that he might be able to maintain a modicum of self-control, just for long enough to assure Ruth that he was alright; that things were under control. It was only when he felt her comforting hand on his arm that he realised how stupid that resolve was. Ruth was clever. Far, far cleverer than he was, or ever could hope to be. There was no hiding this from her. She knew that things weren't under control; that for the first time in a long time, control wasn't even within the realms of possibility. And of course, she didn't need her powers of deduction to see that he was crumbling from the inside out.

He took another shuddering breath and peered up at her from beneath tear-soaked lashes. Her face held no fear, no anger or judgement; only concern. Concern and understanding, for she knew better than anyone the price he had paid for leaving England. She had been right there with him through his heartbreak; through the moments when he'd seen Lottie do something, only to think of how Catherine and Graham had done the same when _they_ were her age. She had consoled him when she sensed that he was silently longing for his children: to find out how they were; whether they were doing well; whether they were happy.

He watched her take in his misery, a tiny, empathetic frown adorning her features. Then, with a tenderness that made his heart clench, she reached out and wiped away his tears, bringing his forehead to rest against hers as she simply breathed with him: in and out, in and out, over and over again. He knew what she was saying: _I'm here_. _I'm right here and whatever happens, I'll stand by you._ And there, in the safety of her arms, he finally let himself go and sobbed.

* * *

"Here," Ruth whispered, setting a glass in between his clasped hands.

Having been lost in the flames dancing merrily in the fireplace, it took Harry a moment to come to. She watched him stare at the contents of the glass, blankly at first, and then with discernible surprise.

"Scotch," he murmured, his voice croaky from crying.

"I thought you could do with one," Ruth said quietly, easing herself down onto the sofa beside him.

Harry blinked, "You hate it when I drink scotch."

Ruth smiled good-naturedly and patted his knee, "No, I don't. I hate it when you drink too _much_ scotch. There's a difference. Whiskey is very good for shock. And you've had really rather a big shock."

"I'll say," he muttered, downing the drink in one and visibly relishing the burn that ignited at the back of his throat.

Ruth couldn't help but worry about Harry as he sat there, numb and almost catatonic after his breakdown. She wasn't a stranger to seeing him cry, of course. She wasn't the only one to suffer from soul-crushing nightmares. There had been numerous times when she awoke to the sound of roars and expletives emanating from Harry's mouth at a pitch that she hadn't thought possible from a human being. These roars nearly always dissolved into an awful falsetto keening, and then finally, sobs. And Ruth would hold him, kiss him, and try to rouse from the torturous torment of his dreams. But when he woke, Harry would have no memory of why he had been crying. Or at least, he claimed not to.

He had told her a little about his fractured relationship with his two eldest children, and any fool could see the sadness in his eyes when he talked about them. She knew that he hid an immeasurable amount of pain inside; that he was practically brimming with regret, and that there were so many instances in his life where he wished he could simply turn back time and make things right. But life just wasn't like that. And Harry, who was good, and kind, and moral, yet so plagued by past actions, had paid a heavy price for his younger self's indiscretions.

Ruth herself couldn't help but feel horribly guilty. She, after all, had been the main reason for him leaving England. Their 'deaths' were her cockeyed plan. And she realised now that she had been selfish in dragging Harry away. He and Catherine may not have been close, but they had at least been on speaking (or rather emailing) terms after the November Committee business. And she was kicking herself for not recognising Ava as Catherine. Although she had never met Harry's daughter in person, she had seen photographs during that case, and she felt unbelievably stupid for not making the connection. No wonder Catherine's eyes and smile had looked familiar. They were the spitting image of her dear Harry's.

Back at the beach, she hadn't understood why she felt so inexplicably drawn to this young woman; so compelled to help her. Now she understood perfectly. She had never much believed in fate, but if this wasn't proof of its existence, she didn't know what was. The situation seemed too neat, too perfect for it to be mere coincidence. She didn't know _how_ or_ why_ Catherine had ended up in Beechworth, but she felt bizarrely inclined to believe that it was indeed fate that led them to cross paths.

"Lottie?" Harry questioned hoarsely, worry clouding his eyes as he turned to stare at her.

"She's... asleep now," Ruth assured him slowly, unsure of how much to reveal; how much he could take.

It had taken a long time for her to get Lottie off to sleep. The little girl had been almost inconsolable after the shock of watching Ava (or rather, Catherine) go down, and her inquisitive nature had had her probing for answers. Minutes before her bedtime, Ruth hadn't felt comfortable revealing that Ava was actually Lottie's estranged big sister. Had she done that, none of them would have gotten any sleep at all. So she merely promised that everything would be explained in the morning – which, of course, was a big promise to live up to.

Lottie had become distressed again when the screaming started. She couldn't exactly hear what was being said (for which Ruth was eternally grateful, as the language being used was definitely not suitable for little girls), but she had picked up on the fury in Ava's tone, and the desperation in Harry's. When the sound of shattering glass echoed throughout the house, seemingly bouncing off every surface, every wall and every floor, Lottie had started shaking with terror. Ruth had made her watch cartoons on her iPad in a bid to distract her, holding her tightly in her arms and whispering promise after promise that everything would be alright. That was the second promise she wasn't sure she could keep.

"Did she hear... ?" Harry trailed off helplessly.

Ruth hesitated, before deciding that honesty was probably the best policy, "Yes."

"Was she alright?"

Ruth couldn't bring herself to answer this time. But her silence was damning.

Harry sighed miserably, returning his stare to the pretty flames which were licking their way higher and higher up the chimney, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Ruth told him, covering his hand with hers. "It's not your fault."

"Of course it _bloody_ is, Ruth!" Harry suddenly snapped, slamming his glass down on the coffee table with such force that it was a wonder it didn't break. "It's _always _my bloody fault!"

A painful silence erupted in the room. Ruth reminded herself that it was simply Harry's insecurities talking. Like Catherine, his defence mechanism was anger. Retaliating in kind would only end in an argument, and she wouldn't allow herself to be baited. Harry clearly regretted his words as soon as he said them. He winced and threaded his fingers between hers.

"Sorry," he whispered, squeezing her hand in apology. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not," Harry said fervently. "It's really not. You didn't deserve that."

Ruth couldn't really think of anything to say to that. Whilst she _had_ been a little hurt by his anger, she also fully understood it. He had needed to project, or else break down again, and she just so happened to be in the line of fire. So rather than say something vaguely mundane, she leant across and kissed him gently on the lips; a simple, chaste peck to reassure him that all was forgiven. When she leant back again, his lips had broken out into a tiny, lopsided smile. His eyes were still red-rimmed and puffy; his skin flushed with emotion, but at least he looked a little more present – as if that simple kiss had breathed new life into his weary body.

"I love you," he murmured, stroking his thumb along her cheekbones, and Ruth felt her skin ripple deliciously at his electric touch.

"I love you too," she smiled, inclining her head and kissing his outstretched hand. "Never forget that."

Harry's smile faded, and that horrible, yet familiar sadness dulled the honeyed hazel of his eyes, "At least_ you_ let me say it. Catherine wouldn't even hear it. The way she looked at me when..." he trailed off and sighed, shaking his head so vigorously it was as if he was trying to rid himself of the mere memory.

Ruth bit her lip, "To be fair to _her_, Harry, she had just had an almighty shock."

Harry snorted petulantly, "And _I_ didn't?"

"Put it this way. If it had been her that died, and you that found out six years later that she had faked her death and moved on to start a new family, how would you react?"

Harry thought about this for a moment, before his shoulders sagged in defeat, "Fair point."

Ruth nodded and busied herself by playing with their interlinked fingers. Holding hands with him was such a beautifully intimate gesture. They had made love countless times over the years and yet her inner romantic still experienced a silent thrill each time they simply held hands. She loved the safety and warmth of his grasp; the weight of his palm against hers.

Harry let out another frustrated sigh, using his other hand to massage his brow, "I don't know. What on _earth_ is she doing here, Ruth?"

"I have no idea," Ruth murmured. "But something pretty awful must have happened for her to end up in the middle of nowhere, sitting on a beach crying her eyes out."

"What do you mean, sitting on a beach...?" And then the penny dropped. "Wait, she's... _she's_ Ava? _She's_ the mysterious woman you found on the beach?"

"Yes."

"But that's... that's insane."

"I know."

"She said she didn't come here to find me –"

"– And it was obviously a shock for her to see you –"

"– Which means... she ended up here by... by _chance_?"

"Exactly."

"But the odds of that are –"

"Zero to none, I know," Ruth finished, smiling a little. She had already had this conversation with herself about a thousand times.

Harry exhaled a low whistle, a despairing frown passing over his features like a dark cloud on a summer's day.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do now," he admitted quietly

"You give her the space she needs to make sense of this. When she's ready, _she'll _come to _you_," Ruth told him firmly.

She knew that she had to be the strong one at this point, because she had never seen Harry so... so vulnerable... so un-Harry. Even during Lottie's infant years, he had seemed so sure of himself; always there to lend a helping hand. He was the one that showed her how to get her off to sleep, how to calm her, how to burp her, how to look after her everyday needs. He was her rock. He was _Lottie's _rock. So how was it that when Catherine returned, he took on the personality of a teenage father; bumbling and awkward and heartbreakingly clueless? It was as if he lost all the confidence and experience the older Harry had gained, and reverted back to his twenty-something-year-old self. Or maybe it was the bridge between raising a young child and a young woman that, despite his best efforts, he had never quite managed to cross. The look of devastation upon his weary face as he dwelled on Catherine's rage just made her want to gather him in her arms and never let go.

Harry released another unhappy sigh, "We don't even know if she'll come back."

"She'll come back."

"How do you know that?"

"Because if she's anything like you, she won't be able to leave without getting answers," Ruth replied with a cheeky smile.

Harry outright laughed at that, "Like a dog with a bone," he confirmed.

Ruth smiled just watching the tension release from his face. She loved his laugh – so deep and rich and husky, and full of unbridled joy.

"Plus," she added a little more seriously, remembering her relationship with her own father. "All any girl wants is their father's love. She may be angry right now, but once those feelings subside and she remembers that you're alive and well, she'll realise that she's got a new opportunity to rekindle... some sort of relationship with you – an opportunity she thought was lost to her forever. I'm sure she won't take that for granted."

Harry smiled softly, squeezing her hand gently between his, "You always seem to find the best in people," The smile turned wry and bitter. "Alas, I think Catherine might just surprise you with how long she can hold a grudge."

"Or maybe _she'll_ surprise _you_. She's not a teenager now, Harry. She was a young woman when you reconnected thirteen years ago, and she's even older now – and probably a lot wiser for it. The ability to forgive and forget often comes with age and experience."

For an instant, Harry looked as if he might argue. Then an odd smirk shaped his lips and he gently lifted Ruth's chin, inspecting her throat with great interest and infinite precision.

"What are you doing?" Ruth frowned.

"I'm checking to see if you swallowed a book of Chinese Proverbs," Harry quipped, with an infuriatingly straight face.

Bloody impossible man! She swatted him lightly on the chest in reproach. She didn't expect him to give a pained hiss and flinch away.

"Harry?" she whispered, dread rocketing through her veins and clutching tightly at her stuttering heart.

Harry didn't say anything; simply looked away. Ruth reached out and touched the fabric of his shirt, a silent request for permission. He gave a slow nod, his face deceptively blank as she carefully undid the first few buttons.

"Oh, Harry," she breathed, utterly horrified.

His whole torso was covered in dark, blotchy, purple bruises. There was hardly an inch of him that _wasn't_ sporting some painful-looking sore or other. Even the tender areas around his gunshot wounds had been beaten red-raw, and despite the brave face that Harry put on it, she could tell he was in quite a lot of pain – physically _and _emotionally. She ran a soothing hand over an especially tender sore, and he hissed again, recoiling from her touch.

"Sorry," she said quickly, jerking her hand back.

"Don't be," he assured her, flashing a smile that she guessed was supposed to be reassuring, even though it came out as more of a grimace. "I like it when you touch me... usually. It's just..."

She nodded in understanding. She couldn't touch his chest, so she reached up and stroked his cheeks lovingly, feeling the late-night stubble prickle delightfully under her palms.

"Harry..." she fretted, and he closed his eyes at her tone.

"I'm alright."

"You're most certainly _not_ alright."

"They're only bruises, Ruth. Surface damage. They'll heal. I've had much worse."

He reopened his eyes, and she could see the honesty in his hazel orbs. He genuinely meant that. Ruth could hardly bear seeing him in _this_ state, so the thought of him enduring anything more sent horrified shivers rippling down her spine. She had witnessed him, bed-ridden and barely coherent in a hospital bed that time after Tom shot him. That had been frightening enough. And at that point, she had only noticed the gentle connection between the two of them; the meeting of souls. How much more would her heart splinter now if anything happened to him: the man she loved completely without question? She suspected it would shatter into so many microscopic pieces, it couldn't ever be repaired again.

"What did I tell you about Catherine and grudges? She's a... a bit of a firecracker," Harry sighed despondently.

"She's a passionate woman alright," Ruth agreed quietly. "I'll give her that."

"She was upset."

"I know," Ruth nodded, forcing herself to understand even though her heart was still ravaged by the sight of the raw welts and mottled bruising darkening her love's chest. She sighed, reaching up and planting another brief kiss on his lips. "I wish I hadn't given you the whiskey now. You could've taken some painkillers."

"I regret nothing," Harry shrugged. "I'd take Scotch over Nurofen any day. Hell, there was a point twenty years ago when I'd take both together."

"Oh good, that's healthy."

For some reason, they both took one look at each other and chuckled. Of course, they recognised that they hadn't said anything particularly funny, but they needed the laugh to defuse the tension brought on by the night's unexpected ordeal. Harry gave one last hearty chuckle and slid his arm around Ruth, kissing her hair and bringing her head to rest against his shoulder. Ruth ensured she didn't rest her full weight against him; the last thing she wanted to do was cause him more pain.

"We should get you some ice, at least," she murmured.

"It can wait."

"You'll be in agony in the morning."

"A few more minutes," he begged, pulling her closer and breathing in her scent. "Just let me hold you a few more minutes."

Ruth smiled softly. She could do that. She nestled herself further into his side and kneaded his knee affectionately.

"Ruth?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for helping Catherine."

She glanced up at Harry. His eyes were brimming once again with regret and sadness. But there was also another emotion there. Concern. Complete and utter concern, such as a parent could only ever feel for their child.

"I said that I could feel this... this overwhelming connection to her," she reflected quietly. "I just didn't know why. Now we know."

"What I said earlier... I feel like a complete prat now."

"What you said, under any normal circumstances, would've made complete sense," Ruth said firmly, before blinking up at him, her own concern evident. "But we have to help her, Harry. People don't cry the way she was crying over something trivial and meaningless. There's a reason she ended up in Beechworth and I don't think it was a happy coincidence."

Harry nodded. His face grew suddenly stormy, and Ruth could practically see the dark cloud hovering over his head as he spoke, "If anyone's hurt her, Ruth..."

"Then we'll help her through it," Ruth told him. "Just like you helped me."

She felt goosepimples prickle up her skin at the mere thought of the attack over six years ago. She still couldn't bring herself to really think about. Neither of them could. They had made an unspoken pact to lock up that particular box, throw away the key, and stow it deep down in the mausoleum of their memories, out of sight and out of mind. Harry silently slid his hand into hers, a welcome gesture of reassurance and solidarity, before he leant back into the folds of the squashy sofa and groaned:

"What an end to Lottie's special day."

"Mm, I don't think tonight was quite what she was expecting."

"I don't think it was what_ any_ of us were expecting," Harry sighed, his beautiful brown orbs glistening with worry. "And what do we tell her when she wakes up?"

Ruth gave this some considerable thought. There was no way their daughter was just going to let this lie. Her inquisitive nature would keep her probing until she got answers. And Lottie was no fool. She would spot a flaw in any lie they might tell her; mainly because the truth was probably the only scenario that actually made sense. How else would you explain a woman who called Harry 'Dad'?

"We'll have to tell her the truth, I expect," she concluded.

Harry hummed in agreement, obviously having come to the same conclusion, "That's one conversation I'm not looking forward to."

"We can do it together," Ruth promised. She wouldn't dream of letting Harry go through this alone. After all, they were a family now, and they would _deal_ with things as a family. "I don't think she'll be put out at having siblings. On the contrary, she admitted to me today that she sometimes gets a bit lonely. And she seemed to _like_ Catherine. The thing she's most likely to get upset about is us not having told her _before_."

"I'm not sure my body can withstand another round of punches," Harry joked feebly.

Ruth gave a wan smile, "Funnily enough, I don't think Lottie will react in quite the same way. She usually bounces back from things quickly, thank God."

"Thank God," Harry echoed.

He grew quiet, his face withdrawn and distant. Judging from the way his eyebrows kept knotting into a frustrated frown, Ruth guessed that he was picking over every little detail of his interaction with Catherine. He was his own worst critic. He was always far too hard on himself, and never gave himself enough credit for his familial achievements. Keen to drag him away from the dark abyss he was spiralling down into, Ruth patted his knee and heaved herself up from the sofa.

"Come on, you," she said softly, holding out her hands for his. "Let's get some ice on that chest and go to bed."

Harry blinked again, "But the washing-up... and Catherine's still out there."

"The washing up can wait until tomorrow. And I don't think Catherine will be coming back here tonight. She's got the keys to the caravan. She's got somewhere warm and safe to sleep tonight, and it'll give her some space to mull things over."

"But I think I should – "

"She's a grown woman, Harry," Ruth reasoned gently. "She won't want you standing at the door, waiting for her to come home like an errant teenager."

Harry sighed, "Yes... you're probably right."

She wiggled her fingers to beckon his hands to join hers.

"Come on then," she encouraged softly.

Harry finally gave in and allowed her to pull him to his feet.

"The glass... there's broken glass in the kitchen," he muttered almost as an afterthought.

"Not anymore, there isn't. I swept it all up. We don't want Lottie treading on it if she decides to go barefoot to breakfast."

"When did you do that?" Harry frowned.

"As soon as I got you onto the sofa," Ruth confessed. "You've been sitting there for quite a while actually."

He consulted his watch and reeled at the lateness of the hour. Ruth noticed that the mantle clock now read five past ten. Harry had been so overwhelmed when she found him weeping his heart out on the bottom stair. It had been a quarter past nine before she managed to coax him onto the sofa. Once there, he had entered into an almost trance-like state. Ruth had given him some time to come to terms with what had just happened, lighting a fire so that he wouldn't be cold and lonely. Then she had busied herself hoovering up the mess in the kitchen, before pouring him a large scotch to help with the shock. It seemed to have worked, for the most part.

"Ice?" she prompted gently.

Harry yawned and stretched his tired limbs, only to flinch once more in pain, "Ice," he agreed.

And with that, they curled their arms around one another and stumbled their way into the kitchen.

* * *

The airport terminal was virtually deserted as he stepped through the automatic doors. He smiled and heaved in a deep, satisfying breath of fresh air. Melbourne definitely had that rich, 'big city' smell. And he liked it. It was a change from the stifling heat and burnt-out slums he had been trudging around for the last two years. But he didn't have time to reflect. He had work to do.

He spotted the information desk standing not too far away. There was a grey-haired man sitting behind it, sipping from an insulated flask. His eyes were dull and bored-looking. _Well good_, Kinkaid thought. He was about to make this man's day a whole lot more interesting.

"Excuse me," he said as charmingly as he could upon approaching the desk. The grey-haired man barely glanced up. "I said _excuse me_."

The man tutted and finally looked up.

"_Yes?_" he said, plastering a blatantly false smile across his face. "Can I _help _you?"

"Yes you can," Kinkaid replied, slipping the photo out of his pocket and sliding it across the desk. "I'm looking for this woman."

The grey-haired worker didn't even bother to look at the photograph, "I don't do missing persons," he muttered dismissively.

This man was seriously starting to irritate him, but for the sake of the odd passenger or two passing by, Kinkaid remained civil.

"Her name's Catherine Townsend. I know that she arrived on the 11:30am flight from Damascus International," he said calmly. "I need to find out where she went next."

The grey-haired man sucked his teeth disinterestedly and took another swig from his flask," Why? Is she in some kind of trouble or something?"

"Yes," Kinkaid answered coolly. "I'd say she's in a fair bit of trouble."

"Are you police?"

"No, I'm not police. I'm just... concerned about her welfare. She's stolen something. Something that doesn't belong to her."

"Well I'm sorry, but there's not much_ I _can do about that, mate," the other man shrugged, not sounding sorry in the slightest. "I'm night staff, you see. I wouldn't have seen her."

Kinkaid smiled an ugly, twisted smile, before checking the sign written in big bold letter across the desk.

"You are an information desk, are you not?"

"Yeah."

"Then give me some information. Where could she have gone from here?"

The grey-haired man snorted, "Just about anywhere, mate. It's an airport. She could've hotfooted it into Melbourne, taken another flight, or hopped on a bus."

Kinkaid thought about this. There was no way Catherine would have boarded another flight. She had been short of cash, and she'd used the last of what was on her card to purchase the ticket to Melbourne.

"Where could she have ended up if she took a bus?"

The rude worker rolled his eyes, "Again. Just about anywhere. Our buses go to all the major connections: Sydney, Brisbane, Albury, Gold Coast – "

"I need to see your CCTV."

"Not a chance, mate," The man replied churlishly, dismissing him with a wave of the hand and returning to look at his computer. "You either need clearance or a police warrant. And you don't seem to have either."

Right. That was it. Kinkaid had had just about _enough_ of this man. He checked out of the corner of his eye that no one was watching; that there were no nearby cameras. Then he pulled out his handgun - the handgun he had bribed the young security bloke back at Damascus International to overlook. He slid it subtly across the desk and aimed it so that its barrel was pointed squarely at the man's forehead.

"This is my clearance _and _my warrant," he said coldly. "Now, I suggest you cooperate with me, 'mate', or this will be your very last night shift."

* * *

**Thank you so much to wolfdrum, Eggwhisker, katmuel, Alias47 and Gregoriana for your lovely reviews. They inspired me to keep writing this week despite real life threatening to get in the way! And thank you to all who are reading this story. Take care. All the best x**


	6. Chapter 6: The Daughter

Neither Harry nor Ruth slept well that night. Both lay awake for a long time, Harry agonising over how to approach Catherine, and Ruth trying to work out how exactly they could explain all this to Lottie. In the end, the weight of Harry's injuries and the emotional rollercoaster of the day won out, and he fell asleep first. Ruth followed not long after, though she awoke only a few hours later, feeling completely unrested, yet unable to return to sleep. As ever, her mind was racing a mile a minute. Some habits died hard. Despite the blissful cocoon that they had created for themselves here in Beechworth, she still was not very adept at switching _off_.

For a good couple of hours, she lay there watching Harry sleep, her heart silently breaking at the nasty purple bruises littering his chest and the unhappy frown contorting his face. He suddenly looked so much older and wearier than he needed to be; as if the heavy load he had shed upon leaving England had returned to his shoulders, heavier and more brutal than before. It wasn't fair. But, of course, it wasn't anyone's fault – except maybe hers. Catherine had every right to feel angry; Harry had every right to feel upset, and she, Ruth, had every cause to feel guilty. She had been an integral force in separating father and daughter, however unwitting it had been. She only hoped things could be put right. And if not put right, at least improved.

Eventually, the pre-dawn chorus started its sweet symphony, and Ruth decided that since sleep was eluding her so, she might as well get up. She kissed Harry's bare shoulder, slipped out from under the duvet, and wrapped a dressing gown around herself. She padded downstairs and drifted aimlessly through the house, her eyes lingering on random details: the books on the bookcase, the dust on the window sill, the photo frames on the mantelpiece. The pictures depicted a seemingly happy family of three. And though she knew that they had indeed been happy, she also knew how much Harry longed for his other two children to be up there, pride of place beside Lottie's school picture.

Ruth sighed and trudged into the kitchen, setting about making a pot of coffee. Her mug filled and in hand, she sipped at its contents gratefully, feeling the warmth of the beverage infuse some much-needed energy into her fatigued bones. Unable to bear any more of the still and silent house, she took herself outside and sank down onto the crumbling stone wall to watch the sun start its slow ascent.

This time yesterday, everything had seemed simple and elegant. She and Harry had been making love in the dim lamplight, lost in the exquisite heat of their sexes. It had been so beautiful, so tender, as they exchanged sweet kisses and loving caresses; as Harry slid home again and again and again until they unravelled completely, falling in each other's arms, a mass of tangled limbs and heaving bodies. And after, as she lay on his chest, listening to the drum of his heart, Ruth had silently reflected on how perfect everything was. Now... well, now things didn't seem quite so perfect.

And then, suddenly, an idea struck Ruth. It wouldn't make everything perfect by a long shot, but perhaps she could make things better.

She hurried back inside the house, set her empty coffee cup down and dragged the pouffe right up to the bookcase. Balancing on the little stool, she felt around the top of the bookcase and retrieved a small shoebox. The shoebox she knew had been hidden there. The shoebox Harry had put there, without knowing that Ruth knew about it. She couldn't help but feel slightly guilty. This was undoubtedly a huge invasion of his privacy. But Ruth also saw how invaluable it might be in getting father and daughter to reconcile. She was prepared to face his wrath as long as it helped the cause.

She carried it through to the kitchen, picked up the pair of discarded lightbulbs from the night before, and lugged them both outside to Caravan Five. Only once she got there did she hesitate, debating whether or not to just leave them outside for Catherine to find. She quickly discarded that idea. She already felt guilty about breeching Harry's privacy. The last thing she wanted was for the shoebox to accidentally fall into the wrong hands. So, taking a deep breath, she knocked three times and waited.

At first, there was no response. All seemed quiet from within the caravan, and Ruth began to wonder if the younger woman had even returned during the night. Perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps Catherine had fled from Beechworth, too shocked and overwhelmed to cope with facing her estranged (and very much alive) father. Then, all of a sudden, the slow thump of footsteps was audible and not a second later, the door swung open.

Catherine's face was flushed with emotion, her cheeks blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed and sore-looking. She looked like she had been crying all night. Ruth's heart went out to her. Her brown puppy dog eyes were so much like Harry's that her instinct was to reach out and hug her. However, she just about managed to restrain herself. She didn't think Catherine would appreciate that right now. Not from her.

"What do _you_ want?" the blonde spat, her eyes transitioning immediately from sadness to fury.

"Sorry to bother you," Ruth said calmly. "I just wanted to give you these."

She held out the lightbulbs and the shoebox.

"I don't want anything from you."

Ruth was unsurprised by this reaction. She had been in Catherine's position. She had experienced a similar sort of outrage when her mother remarried after her father's death. The difference, of course, was that she had been a lot younger than Catherine was now, and she had been far too much of a mouse to say anything. Catherine, like her father, was a lot more outgoing, and much less afraid to speak her mind. Still, Ruth hoped her experiences would serve her well in negotiating such fragile circumstances.

"I know you don't," she said slowly. "But the lightbulbs are hardly an extravagance, and the shoebox... it isn't mine. It's Harry's."

"Well, I don't want anything from _him _either," Catherine snapped, folding her arms stubbornly across her chest.

"He didn't send me. He doesn't know I'm here. I just think you'll want to see this."

"Why would I want to see a manky old shoebox?"

"It's not the shoebox. It's what's inside."

Catherine snorted impatiently, "I don't care, okay? I don't _fucking _care. So why don't you just go back to shagging my dad, or whatever else it is he keeps you around for?"

Ruth felt a twinge of hurt at that, probably because it resonated with the long-dormant fear that she just wasn't loveable to anyone but for the use of her body. That had been her gut reaction to relationships before Harry. Hence her constant urge to run from him for eight long years. But he had gradually broken down those walls, and now she lived safely in the knowledge of his love for her. So she remembered this, squashed down those old insecurities and stopped herself from rising to Catherine's bait.

"I'll go in moment," she agreed patiently. "But only once you've taken these."

"I don't want them."

"I think you do."

"Don't you _dare_ assume anything about me!" Catherine snarled, eyes flashing. "You don't know me."

Ruth sighed, realising that this conversation was fast driving towards the same conclusion as the one the night before. Keen to avoid such an outcome, Ruth decided to just come out with what the boxed contained.

"They're letters, Catherine. Letters from Harry to you and Graham."

Catherine finally paused, surprise evident in her piercing eyes, "W-What? No. No, we never got any letters – "

"That's because he never sent them," Ruth explained softly. "It was too dangerous. I won't explain it now, not here in the open but... but he _wanted _to send them. I know he did. There are dozens and dozens of letters in here – each one handwritten, each one written with nothing but love for you and your brother."

"That's not true. Stop it. Just stop it," Catherine ordered, though her tone was considerably lower, and she was staring at the shoebox with eyes that contained a myriad of emotions: anger, surprise, confusion, apprehension and... and hope. Yes. Hope.

"It _is_ true," Ruth assured her gently. "I've not read them – only who they're to – and Harry doesn't know _I _know about them. But I think these are what he wishes he could have said to you over the last six years."

"But... but..." Catherine whispered, her defences breaking down as she stared at the battered shoebox, utterly perplexed.

"Please. Take this," Ruth urged. "The contents belong to you anyway."

Catherine continued to blink in bewilderment at the battered shoebox. Ruth decided that now she had the blonde's attention, it was safe to leave the objects in her care. So slowly, ever so slowly, and with a somewhat sheepish smile, she set everything down before backing off.

"I'll leave them with you."

And without waiting for a response, she turned tail and walked away. No scathing words were fired after her. Just the sound of a door slamming shut. Unable to help herself, Ruth peered round at Caravan Five. Catherine had gone. And so had the lightbulbs and shoebox.

* * *

Harry eventually surfaced and joined Ruth downstairs. Ruth noted how he winced with every infinitesimal movement, and sat him down at the kitchen table with a glass of water and some painkillers. He flashed a grateful smile and popped the pills quickly into his mouth. By the time Lottie joined them, her hair mussed, her eyes crusty, and one of her socks mysteriously absent yet again, Ruth had already laid the table with toast and cereal, and Harry's pain was significantly more manageable.

Lottie seemed incredibly subdued. Yesterday, she had been a torrent of pure energy, which wasn't a far-cry from her usual character. This morning however, she padded downstairs and slid silently into her chair at the table. Her ocean eyes were dulled grey, and her face was set into an anxious frown. She didn't sit Moo beside her on the table as she normally did but gripped him closely to her chest.

Ruth came and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, squeezing her tightly for a second before shifting a stubborn lock of hair behind her ear.

"Sleep okay, my darling?" she asked softly, concerned by Lottie's solemnity.

"Mhmm," Lottie murmured rather non-committally.

"Right then. Toast or cereal?" Ruth questioned, deciding that it was best to stick to their normal routine. Then at least the girl would have that comfort amidst a time of greatly unexpected change.

"Cereal, please," Lottie opted quietly.

"Corn Flakes or Weet-Bix?"

"Corn Flakes, please."

Ruth dutifully filled a bowl with Corn Flakes and milk and set it in front of her daughter. Lottie dunked her spoon into the bowl but made little effort to eat. She simply stirred the spoon round and round until the cereal disintegrated into soggy mush. Ruth glanced at Harry and saw the same expression of concern mirrored in his eyes. She swallowed and sat down beside Lottie, taking a piece of toast and coating it in butter.

"I think we'd better talk about last night, hadn't we?" she said softly, glad to have the toast to focus on, otherwise she knew she would be twisting her hands in that annoying nervous habit she had never managed to break.

Lottie finally looked up at her, her eyes wide with worry, "Is Ava okay?"

"She's fine, darling," Ruth assured her gently.

"Did she come back?"

Ruth's gaze flickered towards Harry, who blinked in surprise as she answered, "Yes. Yes she did."

She hadn't yet told him about her early morning conversation with Catherine. Her gut was telling her that he would find out soon enough – probably from Catherine herself.

There was a pause as both parents tried to figure how best to approach the topic of 'Ava's' roots. In the end, Lottie saved them the bother.

"Ava's your daughter, isn't she?" she said bluntly to Harry.

Harry blinked again, taken aback for the umpteenth time by Lottie's intuition. Ruth couldn't help but give a small smile. She had already been expecting Lottie to have worked that out.

"Yes, squirt. She is."

The little girl turned her big blue eyes on Ruth, "But not yours?"

"No, my darling. Not mine. That's why I didn't know her when we met her on the beach yesterday. Your Daddy used to be married to another woman, a long, long time before he met me."

Lottie frowned, clearly trying to comprehend the fact that her parents hadn't been together all their lives, as her childish imagination had always led her to believe.

"So she's my... my _half-_sister?" she surmised slowly, checking the term with her mother, who she still saw as the fount of all knowledge.

"That's right, darling."

"But she's old," Lottie frowned.

Ruth chuckled at that. The girl was right. There _was _an uncommonly large age gap. After all, Catherine was probably only about ten years younger than herself.

"As Mummy said, Squirt," Harry interjected quietly. "I was married to Catherine's mother a long, long time ago. Which means Catherine was born quite a long time ago too."

Lottie frowned, "Who's Catherine?"

"Catherine is Ava's real name," Ruth told her gently.

It was Lottie's turn to blink bewilderedly, "But why did Ava – I mean, Catherine – call herself Ava if that wasn't her real name?"

Ruth swallowed heavily, noticing how dangerously close this topic was to hers and Harry's own backgrounds. They after all had been living under an alias – a big fat lie – for the last six years. Perhaps at this rate, they would have to confess all to their daughter, and Ruth definitely wasn't looking forward to that conversation.

"We don't know, Squirt," Harry replied, reaching under the table and squeezing Ruth's hand.

Lottie frowned again, thinking over this massive revelation whilst slowly mashing her cereal into submission.

"Is this a joke?" she asked suddenly.

"No, Squirt. No joke."

"I really have a sister?"

"You really have a sister," Ruth confirmed.

Harry hesitated before adding casually, "And a brother, actually."

Lottie's pupils blew wide with shock, "What?!"

"I had a daughter_ and_ a son in my previous marriage," he admitted quietly. "Catherine and Graham. Both of them are in their thirties now."

"So... so I have a half-sister _and_ a half-brother?" Lottie murmured confusedly.

"That's right."

"But... but..." the little girl stammered, hugging Moo tighter to her chest. "Why didn't you tell me? And why didn't they come to see us?"

Ruth and Harry exchanged guilty glances at the heartbreak in Lottie's tone. Ruth just wanted to scoop her up, cuddle her and reassure her that everything would be alright. _This_ was the moment they had been dreading. _These _were the questions they weren't quite sure how to answer.

"Sometimes, my darling," Ruth began softly, sensing that perhaps she had better take the lead given how raw the topic was to Harry. "Sometimes families are complicated. There can be arguments and lots of sadness, and horrible things that can make people not see each other for a very long time."

"What kind of horrible things?"

"That's not important, darling," Ruth ruled firmly. "The point is, because of all these things, families can grow apart."

"Is it because you and Catherine didn't like each other anymore?" Lottie asked Harry in a small voice. "Is that why she shouted last night?"

"No, Squirt," Harry answered, his voice shaking with barely contained emotion. "We did like each other. But we didn't see each other for a long time, and Catherine is angry because I... I didn't try as hard as I should have to see her."

"Why didn't you?"

There was no malice or accusation in Lottie's question; simply a genuine interest. As with every other thing she couldn't understand, she wanted to soak up as much knowledge as she could until the pieces of the puzzle finally fitted together.

"Well," Harry gulped, his eyes zipping from side to side as he thought about how to strip this complex matter down to its simplest terms. "I suppose because I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Err... well... well, you see..."

Ruth could see that Harry was floundering, and her heart clenched to see him looking so vulnerable, so uncomfortable within himself. It was a rare look on her usually calm and confident partner and she felt compelled to step in before he broke down again.

"Lottie, do you remember when you and Jamie fell out?" she asked softly.

"When I was cross with him because he knocked juice all over my painting?"

"That's right," Ruth nodded. "And the next day you'd forgiven him, because you realised that it was only a painting and it wasn't worth losing a friend over. But you were too scared to go up and talk to him because you were afraid he was mad at you. And he didn't talk to you either because _he_ was scared that _you _were still mad at _him_. And the more you didn't speak to each other, the worse the two of you felt. Do you remember that?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's a bit like that," Ruth explained patiently. "Daddy felt too scared to speak to Catherine because lots of things had happened that he didn't know how to explain. And as more and more time passed by, he felt worse and worse."

"And the worse you felt, the harder it was to speak to her?" Lottie deduced, gazing at her father with soft and sympathetic eyes.

Harry's chin trembled, his eyes glistening with love for his two girls.

"That's right, Squirt. That's absolutely right."

"Maybe you should explain that to her," Lottie suggested sweetly. "Maybe then she won't be so angry."

"Maybe, Squirt," Harry smiled weakly, reaching out and ruffling the little girl's hair, "When did you get so wise, hmm?"

Lottie ducked her head bashfully, but couldn't hide the little grin on her face. It was a trait she had definitely picked up from Ruth.

"And what about you, darling?" Ruth asked gently, keen to nip any concerns Lottie had about this startling turn of events firmly in the bud before they spiralled. "How do_ you_ feel about all this?"

Lottie paused, sitting back in her chair and running her fingers thoughtfully across Moo's tufty fur.

"I like Catherine," she said decisively. "And I think I'd like to have a sister. And a brother. As long as they don't shout _all _the time."

Both Ruth and Harry chuckled.

"Don't worry, Squirt," Harry grinned. "Catherine's bark was always worse than her bite."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that although Catherine did a lot of shouting last night, she wouldn't really hurt a fly."

Ruth could have called bullshit, having seen the large, painful bruises tattooed upon his chest. But she didn't dare say anything that might worry Lottie. Plus, her instincts told her that last night's attack was a rarity; a cataclysmic result of six years worth of pent-up grief. And she was certain that Catherine bore absolutely no danger to Lottie. She wouldn't even think about keeping her on the grounds if she did. So she simply raised a pointed eyebrow at Harry from the across the table, whilst he studiously avoided her gaze.

"How long is it since you last saw her?" the girl asked, curiosity alight in her winsome face.

"Since before you were born," Harry admitted, regret emanating from every pore of his being.

"When you lived in England?"

"That's right."

"That's a long time."

"Yes," Harry nodded sadly. "It is."

Ruth squeezed Harry's hand which was still clutching tightly to her own beneath the table. Lottie stared thoughtfully at her father for a moment before getting up and winding her tiny, twig-like arms around his neck.

"It'll be alright, Daddy," she comforted him, leaving Ruth and Harry wondering just who the grown-up really was. "I'll help you and Catherine to make up again."

Harry smiled, releasing Ruth's hand and tugging Lottie into a big bear hug. Ruth noticed that he winced slightly as the little girl fell against his chest, but she didn't pass comment, seeing in his eyes how much their daughter's support meant to him.

"Thank you, Squirt. I might just need that help."

"Should I stay off school and talk to her?" Lottie asked seriously, in her best imitation of a grown-up.

Ruth grinned, shook her head and tapped Lottie's breakfast bowl.

"Nice try, you," she laughed affectionately. "But you're still going to school. Now come and eat your breakfast before the milk turns warm."

Lottie broke away from Harry, a flash of disappointment in her eyes. Her enthusiasm for helping out was admirable, but Ruth was adamant that she would continue her routine as normal. And that meant school. She watched her baby shovel soggy Corn Flakes into her mouth with a lot more gusto than before. It was then that her second sudden thought of the day occurred to her, and her eyes briefly met Harry's, communicating that she'd need him to back her up.

"There is one thing you can do though, darling," she said casually.

"Okay," Lottie agreed eagerly. "What's that?"

"For now... try not to tell anyone at school about Catherine. Keep her our little secret."

"Why?" Lottie frowned, and Ruth couldn't help but feel guilty. She knew that that was a big ask and a heavy burden for a six-year-old to carry. But what other choice did they have? They didn't yet know why Catherine was in Beechworth, and the image of the younger woman's distressed face down on the beach kept haunting her. Her heart was telling her that Harry's daughter was in some kind of trouble and until they could find out what exactly that trouble was, they needed to keep Catherine's presence on the down-low. Harry had clearly caught on to Ruth's brainwave and was nodding seriously.

"Well... because, Squirt... because... " he stumbled. "She's a very private person and... and..."

"And she wouldn't want everyone knowing about her getting so upset last night," Ruth finished, knowing that the excuse was lame at best, but there wasn't really any other reason why not.

Lottie stared suspiciously at the pair of them and they tried to maintain their best poker-faces.

"Why couldn't I just tell them I have a brother and sister? Just that. Nothing else. So I don't mention last night?" she wheedled, clearly desperate to boast to all of her friends that she wasn't an only child after all.

Ruth sighed. She could see the pros and the cons of the matter. Letting Lottie tell her friends would make the little girl so happy, but at the same time, she could be an utter motormouth when it came to people she knew. There was always a chance that once she started telling them, she might let slip other tiny, yet highly important, details. And until they had spoken properly with Catherine, that wasn't a risk they could afford to take.

"I don't think so, darling. Remember that Catherine called herself 'Ava'?" Lottie nodded. "I think she probably did that so she wouldn't be recognised."

"Why doesn't she want to be recognised?"

"I don't know," Ruth said slowly, before deciding that the only way they could get Lottie on-side was to let her feel part of a big, important secret. "That's what we need _your _help to find out when you get home from school."

She watched Lottie's eyes go wide as saucers, her chest puffing out with pride at being assigned such a valuable and grown-up task.

"Okay, then," she agreed solemnly. "I won't say anything yet."

"Good girl," Harry praised, his shoulders sagging in relief.

"But can I eventually?"

"What?" he frowned.

"Can I tell people eventually? I want to add Catherine and Graham to my Family Tree."

"What family tree?"

"Lottie's class are doing Family Trees," Ruth informed him with a gentle smile.

"Oh."

"So can I _eventually_ add them to my Tree?"

Ruth and Harry glanced at each other, still so unsure about the lay of land. But at this stage, what else could they say but 'yes'? So they did.

"Good," Lottie grinned. "Just not now?"

"Just not now."

"For now, it's our little secret," the six-year-old recited, tapping her nose conspiratorially.

Ruth didn't quite know where she had picked up _that _little gesture, and decided that it must have been from playing 'Spies' with Jamie Peters. Oh, the irony.

"That's right, darling," she chuckled. "Our little secret."

* * *

Kinkaid trawled through the recent CCTV footage, growing more and more frustrated by the minute. How hard could it be to find one woman in an airport? And yet, Catherine seemed to have done a pretty good job of fading into the background. It was like the world was conspiring to keep her presence its own little secret. He aimed a bitter kick at the computer desk before throwing himself back into the squashy, swivel chair, folding his arms grumpily.

He cast a small glance across at the man in the chair next to him. The man sat there, cold and unmoving, his skin turning slowly grey and his eyes blown wide open with fear. Kinkaid took a second to admire the neatness of the bullet in the man's forehead. He knew he was a good shot. But there was something really rather fascinating about how little blood surrounded a clean-cut shot like that.

His eyes flickered to the open packet of M&Ms at the dead man's workstation, and he quickly snatched them up.

"Don't mind if I do. Thanks 'mate'," he said cheerlessly, tossing some of the candies into his mouth and relishing the sweet sugary goodness. Damn, he had missed these in Syria.

He twirled around in the office chair and held out the bag for his grey-haired companion from the Information desk.

"Want some?" he teased.

The grey-haired man also didn't move. That was no great surprise. It would have been a bloody big one if he had, for he was also now dead. He had led him to the security room, and as such had outlived his usefulness. Four other security officers lay lifeless on the floor. An empty airport in the early hours of the morning, combined with a silencer made for easy pickings for sharp shooter.

"No," Kinkaid chuckled darkly. "I didn't think so."

He turned once more to the computer, reclined back in his seat until he was comfy and put his feet up on the desk, scoffing M&M after M&M until he emptied out the packet. He smacked his lips, feeling a little more rejuvenated by the sugar rush, before returning his attention to the footage. So far, he had watched everyone who had boarded the buses to Gold Coast, Brisbane and Albury, all with zero luck. He opened up the recording for Sydney. It had to be this one. It just _had_ to be. He wouldn't be a happy man if it turned out he had come all this way for a stupid dead end. And he knew that his employers wouldn't be happy with _him_ if he allowed the trail to go cold. He was already skating on thin ice with them. After all, it had been due to his stupidity that Catherine had taken what she had in the first place.

He trilled his lips together, bored, as he watched passenger upon passenger climb onto the bus bound for Sydney. He rolled his eyes. What business did these people have being there? He wasn't looking for _them_. He was looking for Catherine. Except she seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

Until she didn't.

His eagle eyes caught a quick flash of shoulder-length blonde hair ducking inside the bus. He stopped the recording immediately and zoomed in. His lip curled into a small, sly smile.

"There you are."

* * *

_24__th__ October 2011_

_Dear Catherine and Graham,_

_It feels strange to be writing you a letter. Well, it's strange writing a letter, period, really. Nobody seems to write letters anymore, which is a shame because I always thought it quite a cordial, even romantic notion. You'd both disagree with me, of course; call me a sentimental old fool. You're of that generation where computers and emails and technology are far more alluring than a few simple words scribbled on a piece of paper. Oh dear. I'm only a few sentences in and I'm already rambling. _

_I think I'm rambling because I'm not quite sure how to say what I want to say. I was never much of a writer. I don't have your journalistic skills, Catherine, or your imagination, Graham. I suppose it doesn't really matter anyway, because this will probably never reach you. But still, I felt like I had to write this down. Call it what you like. Closure. A way of dealing with the guilt. A way of coping with the fact that I miss you. But anyway, here goes. _

_First off, I want you both to know that I love you so very, very much. So much more than I ever told you. And I regret that. You deserved to have been told that every day when you were young, and perhaps even more when you weren't so young. You deserved that. I was a bad father in many respects, but the thing I regret the most is not letting you both know that although I could be pushy, and difficult and absent, there wasn't a day that I wasn't thinking of you; that I wasn't proud of you. There still isn't. Above all, I hope that you're happy. I hope that you've both found someone with whom you can share your life and your love. I'm fortunate enough to have done that, now, after fifty-eight long years. _

_It is now six months after I left England and, to you, I am dead. To you, I am a traitor to my country. You will have had the funeral (if there was a funeral). I can't deny that I hope there was one and that if there was, that you were there. But if you weren't, don't worry, I understand. I truly do. _

_Sometimes living a life in complete secrecy is overwhelming. There are moments when I want to say 'sod it' and just give you a call; send you an email. I want to let you know that I'm alive and well and that I still love and think of you every day, and that I'm definitely not a traitor. I want to explain that I left in order to protect an officer of mine who was a dear friend but in an impossible situation. Had I not taken the fall, he would have spent the rest of his life in prison. The reckless side of me wants to explain all this to you. But I know how much danger that could put you in. Put us in. _

_Yes. Us. You see, there is now an us. You will probably know this from the coroner's report, but I was in the car with a woman and an infant when we 'died'. Of course, we didn't really die; these were plants by some very clever friends of mine. Myself, my wonderful partner and our baby daughter, I can very thankfully say, are alive and well. _

_Her name's Ruth. My partner. She is... wonderful. I met her at work. I was her boss. And Catherine, I can see your scowl as I write this, so stop it, because it's not like that. Not with Ruth. Our relationship wasn't some spontaneous affair based around sex. It had been slow-burning but ever present and every fervent for years. I've made so many mistakes in my family life. You both know that I wasn't faithful to your mother. I had a number of affairs. And she in turn cheated on me. It wasn't a happy marriage, and although we did once love each other, we were so very young when we got engaged. Time changed us. As we got older, our experiences altered who we were and we fell quite spectacularly out of love. We became hardened and bitter. It stopped being about love and instead became about getting one-up on each other. Relationships should never be about that. We hurt each other badly, and the two of you were always caught in the middle. Out of all of us, you got hurt the most. I wish there was something I could say or do to make up for that, but we both know there isn't. All I can really say is that I'm sorry. Deeply, deeply sorry. _

_But Ruth. Dear Ruth is different. She is not a casual fling or a rebound. In fact, I can't quite explain the depth of my feelings for her. The only word I can really think of to describe it is 'soul mate'. I've been around the block many a time, yet I still get those proverbial butterflies whenever I look at her. I think you'd have to meet her to fully understand. But just know that she is kind and gentle and loving, and far, far cleverer than I could ever hope to be. She's endured a lot in her work, but let's just say that she's not prepared to take crap from me (I think that might rather please you, Catherine). Ruth is the chance at love I didn't deserve. But I will hold onto and cherish that chance for the rest of my life. Because I love her. Utterly and completely. And, though I can't imagine why, she loves me back. I can only hope that you would be happy for us. _

_Our daughter – your sister – is now six-months-old and she is gorgeous. Her name is Charlotte. We can't call her that in the open, for her own safety, so we've decided to nickname her 'Lottie'. She's so very bright, like her mother. I wish you could meet her, because I think you would fall in love with her too. She's only six-months and we swear she's already trying to talk. I still remember what your first words were. I wasn't there a lot during your early years, a combination of work and your mother's insistence, but I was lucky enough to be there when you said your first words. _

_Catherine, yours was 'No'. Pure and simple. 'No'. Very telling. You were ten-months-old and you already knew what you did and didn't want. You were clever and passionate and stubborn and I loved that about you. You undoubtedly still are passionate and I'm almost certain you're just as stubborn. And I definitely, definitely do still love that about you. _

_Graham, yours was 'Bagpuss'. Unique and unexpected and very, very you. I bought you a big furry Bagpuss when you were born. I don't know if you still have it, but when you were young, the two of you were inseparable. You seemed to love watching endless reruns of that show. I think you liked watching the woodpecker, Professor Yaffle (why on earth do I still remember that bizarre woodpecker's name?!), because he was smart, just like you. I hope you're doing better – and I don't mean that in a critical way. I mean I hope you feel better within yourself. Last I heard from Catherine, you weren't so happy. You'd left another job and were back in rehab. She gave me a number for you, and I rang but you never returned the call. I hope you're okay. I love you, son. _

_The three of us have just settled somewhere for the first time in six months and it's very nice not to be constantly moving. It has kept us on our toes but being on the run is a young man's game and we all know that I'm not so young anymore. It's refreshing to be able to stay in one place for more than a month. You'd both laugh, but we're actually living in a caravan; one of those static ones which has its own water supply, its own kitchen and its own toilet, and though it's not quite what we imagined, it's actually very pleasant. _

_We get Wi-Fi here, and I've been able to watch a few of your documentaries on YouTube, Catherine. They're thought-provoking and evocative and although they make me miss you, they also fill me with so much pride. I try to watch them when Ruth's not around – not because I don't think she'd be interested, because she would – but because I feel quite afraid that I might break down, and I don't want her to have to cope with that. _

_I'm actually writing this to you whilst Ruth is in the other room, putting Lottie to sleep. She's reading her this story called _The Velveteen Rabbit_, and of course, Lottie's too young to understand, but just the sound of her mother's voice seems to lull her to sleep. And as Ruth's words drift through the crack in the door, it's reminding me of two things. Firstly, Catherine, it's reminding me of that old blue bunny you used to have when you were young. And secondly, it's reminding me of those rare times when I would get home from work early and Jane would let me read you both a story before bed. I was tired and upset and there was undoubtedly some imminent political crisis going on at the time, but at that moment I didn't care because I got to spend just five minutes with the two people I loved most in the world. _

_And I'm almost certain I read you this story – _The Velveteen Rabbit_, once. I vaguely remember making that old blue bunny dance you smiling, Catherine, which was lovely because I hardly ever got to see you smile. And I remember you asking me to do the same with Bagpuss, Graham. And then, Jane came and told me to leave because I was making you too rowdy before bed. And yes, I'm now positive it was _The Velveteen Rabbit_. I remember some of the words, and certainly the sentiment: when a person loves you, really loves you, then you become real. I feel like that's what Ruth does for me. She makes me feel real. And although we're both living life as lie, under names which don't belong to us, in a country which isn't our own, for the first time in a long time, I feel real. And I try to love Ruth and Lottie like that too. I don't want to make the same mistakes I did before. And it is my deepest regret that I can't turn back the clock and love the two of you like that too. If only I could do that now. Love you now like I should have then. But, of course, now it is too late. _

_Now, all I can really do is love you from a distance; be proud of you for the achievements that you'll never know I learnt of and write letters that I know I can never send. It's stupid, really. I had several commendations for bravery and even a knighthood, and yet I was a complete coward when it came to matters of the heart. I couldn't tell you all this when it mattered, and now I'm reduced to a letter. A letter you'll never read. _

_But I think I'll keep writing. I'll keep pretending I have that relationship with you, because, really, it's better than the alternative. _

_So until the next time._

_All my love,_

_Dad._

A teardrop fell onto the page, smudging the thick black letters and soaking through the aged paper. Catherine cast one last look at the letter – the first of so many – before setting it down on the bed and sobbing into her pillow. It was just one thing after another, and even after the last 72 hours, that had been the last thing she had been expecting. She curled up under the floral quilt, dug her face into her palms and took several long, deep soothing breaths. She needed to speak to her Dad. She needed to swallow her pride and just speak to him.

* * *

**Apologies for the posting delay - had a very, very busy week. But I hope people are still interested in the story. Thank you Alias47, wolfdrum and Gregoriana for your kind reviews; you inspired me to keep writing in spite of the hectic week. Next, we find out about the mystery surrounding Catherine, and who exactly Kinkaid is. All the best x**


	7. Chapter 7: The Reconciliation

Harry saw Lottie and Ruth off to the front door for their daily endeavours, before busying himself with the washing-up. It was a heavy task, with tottering piles of dishes from the party the night before. But he didn't mind. He liked to keep busy – especially when something was bothering him. That was one of the things he missed about Five. That sense of purpose. Despite all the pain and heartbreak and crap he had endured, there was always been something to do. He hadn't always felt successful, but he _had_ felt like he was doing something useful. Now, he whiled away most days, twiddling his thumbs, waiting for the next guest to arrive and watching the hours tick slowly by until his family returned. He was happy enough, of course. But there was that small part of him that missed his old life. And now that a big part of his former life was currently sitting a few hundred yards away in one of _his_ caravans, it was harder than ever to ignore it.

Harry shook his head, willing his rising emotions away as he scrubbed at an already gleaming plate. The scourer slipped and screeched out a loud, high-pitched squelch that irritated his ear drums. He tutted and shoved the lot back into the washing up bowl. Leaning against the sink, he took a couple of soothing breaths, trying his best to think calmly. The conversation with Lottie had gone about as well as it could possibly have done. And Ruth had assured him that Catherine would likely come back. He just wasn't too convinced. His daughter could be pig-headed and stubborn – just her father. And when it suited her, she had her mother's vindictiveness. Those two combined did not make up for a promising reunion. Still, he cogitated with a small sigh, life went on. He couldn't allow himself to wallow all day. That mindset would surely drive him mad. And so he got back on with the washing-up. What else was there to do?

He was about halfway through when he heard a sharp rap on the door. Harry frowned. He wasn't expecting anyone. Guests usually arrived mid-afternoon, and it was a little early for the postman. There was only one other person it could be. Hope was the first emotion to hit him. Fear followed in hot pursuit. He felt a sort of anticipatory terror prickle up his spine, his heart immediately starting to thunder in his chest. He steadied his breath, dried his hands and went to answer the door.

Catherine was standing there, hunched in on herself, looking small and vulnerable and devastatingly sad. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, and she was knotting her hands together in a fashion that was surprisingly akin to Ruth. It seemed that his darling Ruth, astute as ever, had been right. Yet it was still a shock to see Catherine there, up close and in the flesh. He struggled to find something to say. Something, anything, that wouldn't have her running for the hills again.

"Hi," was the only thing that came out in the end.

"Hi."

He blinked stupidly, then gathered his wits and opened the door wider "Here... er... come in."

Catherine gave a rather flat, half-smile and stepped inside. Harry closed the door, leaning his forehead against its cool wooden surface for a second. Then he turned around and studied his daughter, somewhat uneasily – and probably more than he should have. She shrank away from his scrutiny, continuing to twist her hands awkwardly, one into the other, again and again.

"Er... come through?"

Again, Catherine did as instructed, following him through into the living room, slowly and cautiously, without a word. Harry gestured to the sofa, and she perched there with a surreptitious glance around at all the photos on the mantelpiece. Harry felt a twang of guilt that she and Graham were not up there, but forced it back down again. He was determined to remain calm. He didn't want to trigger another argument.

"Do you want something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Juice? Something stronger?" he asked, rocking nervously on the balls of his feet. Even without the stifling tension between them, Harry had always been a rather awkward host. Illicit affairs with random women and taking charge of the Grid were the only exceptions to this rule.

"I'd like something stronger, to be honest, but I won't."

Catherine's voice was hoarse and stuffy from all the crying, and the sound of it almost broke Harry's already fractured heart.

"Right."

"I want to keep a clear head," she added by way of explanation.

"Right."

"Are you just going to keep saying 'right'?"

"I'm... not sure_ what_ to say," he admitted warily.

"No, you never really did."

Harry winced at the vehemence in her voice. Catherine sighed and looked away, her hands continuing their knotted ballet and her knee jiggling irately. She was clearly trying to make a valiant effort to remain cordial, for which Harry was grateful. So grateful that he wasn't about to do or say anything that might ruin their fragile truce. So he just hovered, waiting for her to make the first move.

"Look, just... just sit down, will you?" she said impatiently. "You look like a rabbit caught in headlights."

Harry swallowed and did as he was told, sinking down into the armchair opposite.

"And stop looking at me like that!" she snapped.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Like _that_. Like I'm some exotic creature."

Harry glanced away, his gaze moving to her muddied boots instead, "Okay. Sorry."

"And stop being so bloody sorry!"

Harry sighed and withered into the depths of the armchair, really not sure where he was supposed to look or what exactly she wanted from him. The sharpness of her tone reminded him distinctly of Jane and he had never been able to temper his ex-wife's anger very well. He gritted his teeth to stop himself from saying any caustic remarks that might set her off, and continued to stare at her feet.

"My eyes are up here, you know."

Harry snorted incredulously, unable to hold his tongue as he whined a soft, "You just told me not to look at you."

"Like _that_. I told you not to look at me like _that_."

"Like what?"

"Like you... Oh, just forget it."

Harry chanced a glance up at her, "I was just... happy to see you."

For a moment, Catherine looked like she was about to say something acerbic in reply, but she swallowed it back down in the nick of time. It seemed that she too wanted this conversation to work.

"So I got your letters," she said quietly.

Harry frowned, "What letters?"

"The letters in that ratty old shoebox. Your – whatever she is – Ruth... gave them to me, this morning."

Fear gripped at Harry's heart. Fear and fury. Fear at what Catherine was going to say. And fury at Ruth. That bloody woman! That bloody,_ bloody_ woman! She had had no right to interfere like that; to invade his privacy! She hadn't even told him... hadn't even asked. And for that matter, since when had she _known _about those letters? He had pushed them to top of the bookcase when he was alone. He had _written _them when he was _alone._ How could she possibly have known? They were supposed to be living a life without secrets between each other. Why had she not_ told _him she knew? He discarded the rational side of his brain reasoning that _he_ too had been keeping secrets: writing and hiding the letters in the first place. He didn't want to think about that. Not now. No, for now he was too angry. Too scared.

"Right," Catherine nodded calculatingly, clearly having read the dumbfounded expression on his face. "She_ said_ you didn't know."

"She had no right – " he croaked, trying to keep his anger under wraps.

"She had_ every_ right," Catherine argued. "To be honest, it's the most decent thing either of you have done. The letters technically belonged to me. Well... half to me. And she gave them to me, that's all."

"But... but..."

"And I'm glad she did," the blonde continued stoutly. "How else was I ever going to know what was going on inside your head? Why you did what you did. You were always hopeless at talking to me about the things that mattered."

Harry blinked, unsure of whether or not he was still angry. Could it be that Ruth, however annoyed he was at her interference, had given him the chance he needed to mend the rift between him and his daughter?

"You... you read them?"

"Yes."

"All of them?"

"Most of them, yes."

"Right," he murmured dumbly.

"Can you _stop _saying 'right'?"

"Well, I really don't know what else to say. I've had a lot of balls thrown at me at once in the last twenty-four hours."

Catherine snorted derisively, "Oh no, Dad. You have no _idea_."

"What do you mean?"

Catherine didn't reply. For a moment, she just stared at him, the blankness in her face really rather unsettling. Then she shook herself free of her reverie, cleared her throat and folded her arms stubbornly across her chest.

"Okay. So. This is what's going to happen. I'm going to... sum up what I got from your letters and you're going to tell me whether I've got things right. Okay?"

"Okay. Does that mean I can say 'right' again?"

Catherine cast him a withering glance, "Now's not the time for jokes, Dad. I'm not in the mood for shitty humour."

"Right. Sorry. Yes," Harry held his hands up in defeat, despite inwardly cheering at hearing her call him 'Dad' again. "Please. Continue."

"You didn't die six years ago."

"Right."

"You got together with a woman from work and had a baby. They were the woman and child from yesterday – Ruth and Lottie."

"Right."

"So that little kid is my sister."

"She is, yes."

Catherine swallowed, clearly still trying to comprehend this revelation.

"And..." she frowned, shaking her head as if to get back on track with the interrogation. "And you faked your deaths to protect someone at work who otherwise would've gone to prison."

"Right."

"And you just... what... stuck a needle in a map and chose _here_?"

"No. I can't remember exactly when I wrote that first letter, but I think we'd just arrived here. We'd travelled Europe extensively, but didn't feel safe; kept coming across old... adversaries. So we kept moving and ended up in Sydney. Then, one day we stopped here."

"And you stayed."

"And we stayed."

Catherine frowned, as if something had just occurred to her, "Where... where exactly _is _here?"

It was Harry's turn to frown.

"You don't know?" he asked, astonished.

Catherine usually managed to keep her feet firmly on the ground, aware of where she was and where she was going at all times. Her erratic behaviour was seriously starting to worry him.

"Just tell me!"

"Okay, okay," Harry appeased, holding his hands up again in surrender. "Beechworth. We're in Beechworth. North-East of Victoria."

"Right," she nodded, processing this before waving them on. "So you settled in Beechworth. And you now run the whole Caravan Park. Is that right?"

"That's right."

"And no one here knows who you are, or what you did when you were back in England?"

"No. For six years, we've been living as Henry and Rebecca Knight, two former teachers."

"And this woman. Ruth. Are you two married?"

Harry hesitated. It wasn't as if he hadn't thought about proposing. Again. But whenever he raised the topic, Ruth always seemed to steer the conversation elsewhere. And he let her. He wouldn't push things. He didn't doubt her love for him and, after all, there were a shed load of reasons for them not marrying at this point in time. The disastrous proposal a lifetime ago at Ros Myers' funeral was a major factor. Even now, he wasn't sure she had quite gotten over how poorly timed that was. And also, he knew that were they to marry, they'd want to be bound to each other by their _real _names. Marrying using sham names might surely doom them to a sham marriage. And they both deserved more than that. So for now, their comfortable little life and what they had, was enough. It had to be.

"No, we're not married. People assume we are. Our aliases certainly are, and our passports say so. But in reality, no, we're not."

Catherine rolled her eyes and grunted disparagingly, "Of course. Some things never change."

For the first time since Catherine arrived, Harry felt a twinge of annoyance towards his daughter.

"If you've read my letters, then you must surely know how serious I am about Ruth."

"Sure, Dad," Catherine muttered, blatantly unconvinced. "If you say so."

"I do say so," Harry stated, folding his arms firmly across his own chest; a perfect mirror of his daughter. "The fact that we're not formally married means nothing. We're very much together in every other way."

"Yeah, yeah, alright. I don't want to know the sordid little details."

Harry opened his mouth to retaliate, but managed to stop himself just in time. He had always been quick to defend his relationship with Ruth, especially when it came to his love's honour, but he realised that actually, Catherine was probably just trying to get a rise out of him. So instead of responding to her goads, he broached the line of questioning that they both knew was coming.

"Ask me."

"Ask you _what_?"

"Ask me what's been going round in your head since we saw each other last night. I explained it to some degree in my letters. But I think somehow you'll probably want – and indeed, deserve – an explanation face-to-face."

Catherine paused, then nodded, her breathing accelerating as the cracks in her barely restrained anger began to show.

"Okay, fine. Why couldn't you have found some way to tell me? To even just let me _know_ that you were still alive?"

"Because to let anyone know would've been dangerous. For myself, Ruth and Lottie; for you, for Graham and Jane, for the people within Five who got us out."

"Who knew within Five?"

"That doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

"You wouldn't know them."

"Did Uncle Malcolm know?"

Harry hesitated. His silence was enough.

Catherine laughed humourlessly, running frustrated hand across her forehead, "That bastard..."

"Don't be angry with Malcolm – "

"I'm _not_ angry with Malcolm. I'm fucking _furious_!" she growled, pounding the arm of the sofa with her fist for emphasis.

"He was only trying to help. And it was what he was trained to do after an operative's been extracted."

"So you've done all this before with _other_ people?!"

Harry's jaw twitched with guilt, "Yes."

"Oh, bloody _fantastic_! Exactly how many living, breathing human beings have been declared _dead_? Exactly how many _families_ have you destroyed?!"

"We did what needed to be done, for the safety of all concerned."

"Well congratulations, Dad!" Catherine spat, tears filling her eyes and overflowing down her flushed cheeks. "What a good job you did! Because I have never felt _less_ safe in my life!"

Harry was caught between wanting to hug his eldest child, and ask her what exactly that meant. Her behaviour had already been worrying him, but now she was starting to talk in riddles.

"I don't understand," was all he could think to say.

Catherine ignored him, "So whilst Malcolm was busy lying to us, comforting us at your fucking funeral, and you were busy shacked up with some woman, did you ever stop to think about how _we_ were? You know... the kids you left behind?"

"Every day. I thought of you every day."

"Yeah? And did you ever think about how much we might need you?"

The tears were coming harder and faster down Catherine's cheeks. The bravado was fading fast from her voice, and all that was left was hurt, grief and a bewildering note of terror.

"Catherine?" he murmured concernedly.

His head told him to stay rooted to his seat; that any contact might scare her off. But his heart couldn't bear to see her in such a state. He rose from the armchair, quickly crossed the threshold and sat down beside her on the sofa, placing a hand atop of hers. She made a rather weak attempt to pull away.

"Get off," she ordered, without the assertiveness, or indeed the resolve that was actually required of such a demand.

"No, I won't," he negated, gently dragging his hands up her arms and pulling her into his embrace. She made another feeble attempt to wriggle away. However, it seemed her own heart was pulling like a magnet into the warmth of her father's arms because she gradually gave up the fight and allowed herself to be held. "I won't let you go, because you're upset and I'm worried about you."

"Don't be," she sobbed, her trembling voice resonating painfully against his chest. "I don't want your pity."

"It's not pity. It's love."

"You don't love me. You _can't_!" she cried wretchedly, her distress ripping his fractured heart to shreds.

"Oh, yes I can," he whispered certainly. "That's one thing I distinctly remember writing in every single letter. That I love you. I meant it and I still do."

"If you loved me so much, then why weren't you there when I needed you?"

"I... I know... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he murmured back, kissing the top of her head, and running a soothing hand up and down the knobs of her spine. She was thin. Far too thin.

"Why weren't you there when I met _him_?! Why weren't you there to _tell_ me?!" she wept.

Harry swallowed. Her emotions were spiralling increasingly out of control, and her words becoming more of a mystery than ever. Him? Who was 'him'? He could only assume that some bastard had broken her heart. And Catherine didn't suffer fools lightly, so for her to be in such a state, this man must have done a real number on her. He kept a tight rein on his own emotions, and tampered down the rage that threatened to raise its ugly head.

"Who's _him_?"

But Catherine didn't seem to be listening. She was too busy caught up in the torrent of her tears, sobbing her heart out against his shoulder and gripping his shirt with every ounce of strength she had left. It was making his bruised chest ache, but that was the very last thing he was worried about right now.

"I'm scared, Dad! I'm s-so s-so scared!" she cried.

And suddenly Harry realised that this – whatever this odd tangent in the conversation was – wasn't about his relationship with Catherine anymore. And perhaps it wasn't even about a disastrous love affair. It appeared to be as Ruth had suspected: something was very wrong with his daughter. She was in some kind of trouble, and she needed help. He wanted to dive straight in and demand answers; leave no rock unturned, but he knew that that sort of pressure wouldn't be helpful right now. Not when Catherine was weeping so hard it seemed as if she might never stop. Not when he could barely get a coherent word out of her.

So he just continued to let her blub into shirt, squeezing her to him and whispering reassurances of help. Because even though he hadn't seen her for six years, and even though she was very much now a grown woman, a father never stopped wanting to do his damndest to make everything okay for his little girl. And it was painfully obvious that everything was far from okay with Catherine. How _could_ it be when she was clinging to him like a small child, sobbing over and over, with eyes that shone bright with fear?

"They're after me! They're coming after me and I don't know what to do! Help me. _Please_ help me!"

And he was helpless. All he could do was rock her, all the while wondering what on earth his little girl had gotten herself into.

* * *

"Here. Drink this."

Catherine, who was still puffy-eyed and red-faced after her meltdown, silently took the proffered mug, nursing it between her hands. It had taken a while for her to calm down. In the end, she had cried herself dry, before passing out on the sofa for an hour. Harry had simply watched her sleep; anxious about her health, worried for her safety, and wishing fervently that Ruth was there. He wasn't sure she would be much better at handling Catherine than he was; he had never seen his daughter so devastated, so utterly inconsolable. But her presence, warm and comforting by his side, always filled him with a quiet strength. A strength he knew he dearly needed right now.

Eventually, Catherine had awoken, silent and sheepish and clearly very embarrassed by her breakdown. Harry had retreated to the kitchen under the guise of fixing a drink. He could see that they both needed a moment to compose themselves. The conversation they would inevitably have on his return was either going to see her push him away, or tell him what exactly was going on. And he wasn't sure he was ready for either.

But now, here he was, sitting tentatively on the sofa beside Catherine, waiting for her to say something... anything. She didn't tell him to bugger off. At least that was a good sign. The blonde was staring down at the contents of her mug, a small smile playing across her face.

"Sweet tea?" Her voice was even hoarser than before, wrecked from all the crying.

"Am I that predictable?"

"Yes."

Harry smiled ruefully and took a sip of his own tea. When he glanced back at Catherine he was surprised to find her staring at him.

"When I was sixteen, my first boyfriend dumped me," she announced out of nowhere. "Thomas McCloud, do you remember him?"

It took him a moment to recover from this random recollection, but he nodded silently. He rather wished he _didn't _remember Thomas McCloud. The cocky little toerag had been all bravado and bluster and hadn't been anywhere near good enough for his little girl.

"You made me a mug of sweet tea and told me that there wasn't anything a good cup of sweet tea couldn't fix."

Harry grimaced. He had forgotten that. He certainly wouldn't dream of saying something that patronising now. Yet Catherine didn't seem to be viewing it as a negative. On the contrary, she was blinking at him in wonder, a rare softness permeating her gaze. It was almost as if she was looking at him –_ really_ looking at him – for the first time in forever.

"You'd moved out by then," she reminisced quietly. "But Mum called and told you. You left work early to come round and fix me a cup of sweet tea."

Harry ducked his head bashfully. He didn't know why. He had never been the bashful type. Perhaps Ruth's mannerisms were rubbing off on him. Or perhaps he just wasn't used to the semi-compliment from his eldest child.

"Well," he huffed out a gruff chuckle. "Don't worry, I won't be so condescending as to suggest that a mug of sweet tea will fix everything now."

The tiny, infinitesimal smile faded from Catherine's face, "No. I don't think anything will fix this."

She sounded so forlorn, so despairing that it almost broke him. Catherine was many things: stubborn, sarcastic, passionate, opinionated, and at times a right madam – but she wasn't a quitter. She had an inner strength. It was that strength that must have driven her anger last night; spurred her on to hit him again and again and again, even when she was seemingly falling apart at the seams.

"You know what else you said to me that day that day that boy dumped me?" she continued, her voice soft and devastatingly sad. "You said that men could be shits. You said that you knew that, because you could sometimes be one of them," she glanced apologetically up at him, her gaze gloomy but nevertheless unwavering. "And though you comforted me then, I was so ungrateful. I stormed off and told you you didn't know anything. And for years after that I used that comment against you. I called you horrible things; said things I didn't mean."

"So did I," Harry shrugged, trying not to remember all those times their rows had compelled him to hit the bottle, or seek solace in the bed of yet another nameless, faceless woman.

Catherine's next statement rattled him to the core.

"Men _are_ shits, Dad."

He gulped, wondering just what had happened to his little girl to make her say such a thing. His stomach rolled uneasily. Please, God, don't let what had happened Ruth over six years ago have happened to Catherine.

"Catherine – "

"Men _are_ shits," she repeated, a single tear trickling down her face. "You're not one of them. Not really. Well – maybe a bit... But men... but _he_..."

She trailed off listlessly, shaking her head and swiping a hand impatiently across her face. Harry tried to think of what to say, but all sense seemed to be eluding him. So he placed his hand underneath her mug and lifted it gently towards her lips. She followed his lead, taking a few slow sips before sighing as the warm liquid soothed her raw throat.

"Bit better?"

"Bit," she mumbled.

"Good. Because I think you need to tell me what's going on."

"Don't get up on your high horse with me!" she snapped, a hint of the usual fire returning to her eyes. "I'm still livid with you, you know."

Harry nodded, "Duly noted. But_ I'm _still worried about _you_. So please. Talk to me."

Catherine sighed, lowering her mug and fiddling absently with the rim.

"I've been in Syria on and off for the last two years, documenting the conflict and following the White Helmets." Harry raised his eyebrows, rather glad that he hadn't known this, or else he knew he would have spent every minute of every day worrying. "I... I met _him_ while I was there."

"Him?"

"Ollie Kinkaid. British-born journalist – or so he_ said_," her face turned dark and she distinctly avoided his eyes now as she spoke. "We met in Damascus. We were both following a car bomb incident and I found out that he and his team had been covering pretty much the same things we were. So we teamed up. It's hard to find friends out there in the carnage... the savagery... and he was sweet. Really sweet, and attentive and basically, your stereotypical English gentleman in a country in chaos. And we fell in love. Or at least... I thought we did."

"Catherine – " Harry murmured sadly, reaching out a hand and laying it gently atop of hers.

"Don't," she swallowed, a hard edge to her voice as she stared determinedly at her mug. "I don't need you to tell me how stupid and naive I was."

"I wasn't going to say that."

"Well, I don't want your pity either. I think that'd be even worse."

Harry sighed, doing his level best to remain calm, "What did this Kinkaid character do?"

"Nothing to _me_," she mumbled flatly. "Not yet. Unless you count lying – in which case he was the biggest shit of them all."

She sighed, shook her head once more and took another soothing sip of her tea.

"I was stupid, dad," she whispered forlornly. "I allowed myself to fall in love. I've always been so guarded, especially after you and Mum divorced. I mean, sure, I've had boyfriends and I'm certainly no nun. But I'd never fallen for someone. Not like this. For the first time in my life, I began to think that... that maybe I was going to get that all-elusive happy ending... that it was possible to fall in love without getting screwed over. But it turns out... you were so right all those years ago when you used to call me foolish and naive – "

"Catherine, I was wrong. So very wrong – "

"No, you weren't. In fact, I think that might've been the truest thing you ever said to me."

"No – "

"_Yes_. Now shut up or I'll never be able to get the rest out," Catherine ordered bluntly.

Harry wanted to argue with her; explain that he regretted his words from when she was a teenager. He had been frustrated and unhappy and although he had loved her, he had had no idea how to talk to her. After all, hadn't he thought the same things about Ruth at one time? Perhaps this was just what he ended up doing with the people he loved? He managed to belittle them yet simultaneously put them on a pedestal and believe that they were worth only the best. Why did he do that? But, of course, now wasn't the time to reflect. Now he had to do as his daughter asked: shut up and listen, or else he would never find out what was troubling her so.

"A few days, ago I was out in Damascus filming. Ollie didn't come. He said that he and Karim were going to stay at the flat to get some editing done."

"Who's Karim?"

"Karim Nahas. He's... he was a sort of go-between guy between our crew and the local communities. He was born Damascus; knew the people and the area really well. He was a part of Ollie's team."

"I see."

"Anyway, I came back after filming and I could hear voices in the flat. One of them was Ollie's, the other Karim's – but there were some others. Men I didn't recognise." Harry frowned. He didn't like where this was going at all. "I thought about calling out, but something... I don't know... something told me not to. So I just crept into the bedroom and listened. It turns out that the walls are really paper fucking thin in Damascus, I could hear every word being said, and I began to realise that this wasn't just a production meeting. A lot of the men were speaking in Arabic, but I've picked up a fair bit in my two years there."

"What were they saying?"

"They kept talking about something called Alfurasan Alarbe. They made it seem like some kind of organisation," she glanced up at him. "Do you know it?"

Harry shook his head. He had heard about hundreds of organisations running in Syria, but that one didn't ring a bell.

"They mentioned Daesh. Again and again. I began to a get a picture of what they were talking about."

Harry swallowed. Anything to do with Daesh was definitely not good. Could it be that Catherine had stumbled quite by accident upon a terrorist plot?

"They were Daesh, Dad," Catherine murmured, her skin slowly draining of colour. "Ollie. Karim. Every single one of them. They seemed to be a faction calling themselves Alfurasan Alarbe. And Karim... Karim who'd seemed so nice and harmless? Well, he'd been a busy boy. Whilst acting as our go-between, he'd also found the time to gather intel from rogue MI-5 sources. He'd been running these assets for five years. Five bloody years."

"MI-5?" Harry croaked. "How does MI-5 fit into all this?"

"From what I could gather, Alfurasan Alarbe's objective was to... to..." she trailed off, dropping her mug onto the coffee table and dragging a trembling hand across her brow.

"Catherine?" Harry prompted, dread chilling his veins. He was unsure of what angle he should take now: the concerned parent or the former head of Counter Terrorism. "Tell me, what was their objective?"

Catherine moaned and dug her fingertips into her ears, as if trying to block out whatever travesty she had witnessed.

"Catherine?" Harry pressed, running a hand as gently as he could along her arm. "Catherine, I need you to focus. Come on. Focus for me. What was their objective?"

The blonde released an uncharacteristically vulnerable whine and unplugged her ears, taking a deep breath and staring at her father properly for the first time since she had talked about Syria.

"They seemed to be planning to bring a series of attacks to Britain in penitence for their interference in the war."

Harry's blood ran cold. For a moment, he sat there, staring agape at his eldest child. _Shit._ What could they do? What _he_ possibly do? Catherine seemed to read his expression perfectly, because she nodded, gulped and took another deep breath.

"That's not all, Dad," she whispered. "I... I took something."

Harry's eyes widened, his heart hammering a billion to the dozen beneath his aching chest. Biting her lip, Catherine dug her hand into her pocket and slowly withdrew a small, metal device. It was a USB. A simple USB. Though what was on it, Harry could only imagine.

"Karim said that these MI-5 double agents had been feeding him intelligence on the location of hidden uranium and plutonium across the UK. He'd finally got the last of the locations so that they could act. Ollie... Ollie..." she sniffed, her voice trembling again as a few more tears trickled down her face. "He said that he was going to take this intel back to Britain, where the rest of Alfurasan Alarbe are based."

"They have a group in Britain?" Harry repeated sharply.

"Yes. It sounded like they'd been primed for years, waiting for this intel."

Harry exhaled heavily, running a hand through his thinning hair as he tried to comprehend all that Catherine had told him.

"He shot him, Dad," Catherine whispered suddenly, eyes wide with terror, her cheeks glistening with tears. "One of the men – the ringleader, I think – told Ollie to shoot Karim. He said that Karim had done good work, but that with the amount of time he had spent with all these British sources, he was concerned he might have an attack of conscience; might turn tail and become a double agent for Five. He said that they couldn't risk it and he told Ollie to kill him. And... and he did. He had a gun – a gun I'd never seen _anywhere _in the flat. And he just... shot him."

Catherine descended once more into sobs, and Harry was powerless to do anything other than hold her. He himself was still in shock and knew that there was nothing he could really say that would make her feel better.

"He didn't even think about it, Dad. This man. This good, sweet, kind man, who I thought I'd known – who'd held me after we saw so many atrocities; who'd told me he loved me. And he just shot his friend, without thinking, without seeming to feel anything. That wasn't the man I fell in love with. I don't know who he was but... but it wasn't him. Everything was lie! Everything was a total fucking lie!"

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered into her hair. "I'm so sorry."

"Why didn't I see it?" she demanded furiously of herself. "Why didn't I see who – _what_ he really was?"

Harry had thought the same thing about Elena Gavrik. He hadn't loved her, but he when the truth of her lies were exposed six years ago, he had berated himself for not seeing the monster beneath the mask. Then there was Juliet Shaw, Connie James, Angela Wells, Nicholas Blake, William Towers, and all the others who'd been hiding their deepest darkest selves. He was only sorry that Catherine had had to experience such deceit. And, of course, he recognised that it must be a hundred times worse for her, because she had actually fallen for this man.

A horrible thought suddenly struck him – only he hadn't the faintest idea how to ask Catherine without hitting her where it hurt. He supposed there wasn't really any way he could soften such blow, and decided that it was probably just best to ask outright.

"Did he – Kinkaid – know about _you_? Your background I mean?"

Catherine pulled away, swiping at her eyes with a confused frown, "What?"

"I mean... did he know that... well... that _I'm _your father?"

Catherine blinked at him incredulously, the tears momentarily stopping as fury reclaimed her features.

"_That's_ what you think?!" she cried, recoiling to the far side of the sofa. "You think he only chose me because he knew about _you_?"

"It was just a thought," Harry muttered helplessly. "I mean... why would he – ?"

"Why would he choose a nobody like me unless he knew about _you_?"

"I didn't mean it like that – "

"No, Dad, that's exactly what you meant!" she snapped, folding her arms across her chest in outrage. "Everything has to be about you. He couldn't have chosen _me_ for _me_. It _must_ have had something to do with you being my dad! Well. _Fuck_. _You_!"

"I just wondered – "

"Well, it had nothing to do with that," Catherine negated hollowly. "Everyone thinks you're dead, remember? Even_ I_ did. He never seemed that interested in my background. He asked once about my family back home. I told him my father was dead."

That hurt more than Harry knew it should. After all, he was legally dead. And his daughter had been forced to endure his funeral.

"Okay," Harry appeased, keen to stop their progress from backpedalling. "I'm sorry. Really, I'm sorry."

The blonde just snorted and shook her head in response, running her hands once more over her face, and wiping away any remaining tears. Her nose was running and she inhaled a deep, snotty sniff in a bid to calm herself. All was silent for a moment, before Catherine turned to look at him again. Some of the anger seemed to have faded from her eyes, replaced by that same horrible deep-seated sadness.

"You know, I think it might've been easier to deal with if it turned out he only wanted me because of _you_. At least then it would have been _for _something. But no," she whispered bitterly. "I was just his handy bit on the side. The woman he could screw while he was plotting to destroy everything we've been trying to save."

Harry shook his head, unable to bear hearing his daughter talk about herself like that. He badly wanted to kill this bastard, Kinkaid. _And_ the people he stood for – this Alfurasan Alarbe. He couldn't recall feeling this much anger, this much hatred, since the night Ruth was attacked. He could feel it blazing through his veins and lighting up the old, roaring fires within his rusty soul. For he was still Harry Pearce. Even though he was legally dead and a formally a traitor, he couldn't stand by and let this group wreak havoc on the UK. And he couldn't let Kinkaid get away with hurting his little girl. Yet as much as he was itching to launch straight away into a counter offensive, he knew that he had to keep listening patiently. Catherine still had more of the story to tell.

"Before... before Ollie shot him, Karim said that all the locations of the uranium and plutonium were on a USB. It was the only copy – to keep it secret and safe, he said. But he was actually bloody stupid really, because once he'd handed Ollie the USB, there was absolutely no other reason for them to keep him alive. He must've been smart to gather all that intel. No, he was smart – he could speak Arabic and English like he breathed air. He had a talent for people, and understanding how they worked. And yet with all those brains and all that human understanding, he just couldn't see that handing over that USB would lead to..." Catherine trailed off with another weary sigh. "Did you ever get used to it, Dad? All that death? That feeling you get when you realise that someone who was alive only a second ago, is no longer there anymore?"

Harry's heart clenched painfully, trying not to think about all the friends he had lost over the years, "No. You never get used to it."

"I mean. I saw my fair share of bodies in warzones. But I'd never heard it... _felt _it that close."

Harry could only nod in understanding, inching closer to her again and reaching out to squeeze her arm. He glanced down at the USB still clutched tightly in her fist.

"If Karim gave the USB to Ollie, how did _you _end up with it?" he asked, though he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

Catherine arched her eyebrow challengingly, "How did _you_ get information out of the opposite sex when you were at Five?"

Harry was caught between supreme discomfort at imagining his little girl in bed with any man (let alone a gun-toting terrorist), and shame that she was very much aware of his former honey-trapping techniques.

"I acted, Dad," the blonde stated raggedly. "I put on the best performance of my life and pretended that I knew nothing of what had happened. I pretended like I _wasn't_ disgusted by this man that I thought I'd loved. I left the flat without anyone noticing and came back a few hours later. I pretended not feel sick when I commented that the sitting room smelled of ammonia, and he said that he'd been doing a bit of cleaning. I pretended not to think about how Karim must've laid there bleeding only hours before. I pretended not to think about the fact that Ollie Kinkaid was a murderer... a terrorist; that he was planning to go back to England and build dirty bombs that could hurt thousands and thousands of people. I was scared and I wasn't thinking straight. All that I knew was that I... I _needed_ to get that USB away from him. _I _needed to get away from him. So I did the only thing I could think of. I forced myself to sleep with him. One last time." Harry closed his and looked away. He really, really didn't want that image in his head. "Then, once he was asleep, I took the USB and ran."

She paused, staring down at the tiny device in her hand, twirling it idly between her fingers. Both father and daughter couldn't help but ponder how such a little thing could cause so much trouble. Harry's gaze then shifted to his daughter, marvelling out how strong she had become; how brave. Not many people would have had the courage to do what she did – not even the brightest and best MI-5 recruits. He'd try to praise her by calling her a chip off the old block, but somehow didn't think she'd take too kindly to that.

"Ollie mustn't have slept for long. He must've figured out that I'd taken it; that my strange behaviour with him earlier wasn't because of a stressful day of filming, but because I'd seen a lot more than he wanted me to see. And suddenly, he wasn't nice, kind, sweet Ollie anymore. He came after me. And he brought a load of those monsters with him too. They chased me through Damascus and... and I was so _bloody_ scared, Dad."

Harry swallowed, running a hand up her arm, partly to comfort her, and partly to reassure himself that she was here now, safe and unharmed. He thanked whatever deity it was that had led her here so that he could help her; make a plan and ensure that she wouldn't come to any more danger. The psychological ramifications of what she had seen and done would probably be brutal. She had compelled herself to do something she despised for the moral good – something that unlike field agents, she wasn't trained for or prepared to do. No wonder her behaviour had been so erratic the night before. Enduring all of that and then seeing her dead father turn up very much alive must surely have almost finished her off.

"I ended up at the airport without really thinking. I used most of the money I had on me to board a flight – the first one I could find. And I ducked onto the plane just in time before the gates closed. I didn't realise I was heading to Australia until the plane landed. Then some instinct in me knew that I had to keep moving. So I took a bus from Melbourne and got off here. It seemed fairly out of the way and I was sick of travelling."

"And then Ruth and Lottie found you."

Catherine's jaw tensed, "Yeah. Then _they_ found me."

For the moment, Harry didn't push the subject of Ruth and Lottie. He knew that she had endured enough, and he himself certainly had lots to think about.

"At least you're probably safe here," he murmured, not exactly sure who he was trying to reassure more.

Catherine shook her head doubtfully, "You don't know Ollie. Even without the whole... terrorist thing – he's like a dog with a bone. If he wants something, he'll go after it. And you didn't hear these people, Dad. They were fanatics." For the first time since her arrival, she actively sought out physical contact, reaching out and gripping his hand tightly in hers. "I have to face facts. They're going to come after me. They'll find out what flight I boarded and they'll track me down."

Harry's heart sank, but he wasn't exactly surprised. Since when was he and his family ever that lucky?

"Alright," he nodded grimly. "Then I think we need to think carefully about what we do next."

"We?"

"Yes, _we_."

"So you'll help me?"

"Of course I'll help you. I wouldn't leave you to face this alone."

Catherine bit her lip, squeezing his hand for a second time before murmuring a tentative but sincere, "Thank you."

"We need to tell Ruth when she gets home."

Catherine froze, her expression turning sour and resentful, and not unlike that of a sullen teenager, "Why?"

"Because I'm not keeping this from her," Harry said firmly.

"But why can't we just – ?"

"No," Harry negated sternly. "Quite apart from the fact that Ruth is my partner, she was also a damn good analyst back at Five. We'll need her. And if you're right about them coming after you, then this is going to affect all of us. Your mother and brother too, I expect."

Catherine blinked, as if this thought hadn't even occurred to her, "You mean they might –?"

Harry sighed, hating the thought that his entire family might now be in danger, yet trying to be as gentle as possible in breaking this to Catherine. The poor girl had clearly not been in the right head space to think through the repercussions of her actions.

"I don't know," he said softly. "I wasn't there. But protocol at Five was to prepare for all eventualities. _You_ were there. What do you think? Do _you_ think these people are dangerous enough to go after Jane and Graham?"

Catherine's chin began to tremble, her hazel eyes widening in horror, "Oh... Oh God!" she clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh God, Dad! What have I done?!"

He wanted to tell her that she'd done the decent thing; the _brave_ thing, but wasn't sure that was much of a consolation. Back at Five, it was often the good officers, the selfless souls, who ended up paying a heavy price for their bravery. He only prayed that this time it wouldn't be the case. He couldn't bear the thought of his son, or even his ex-wife, being in danger any more than Catherine could. So he just squeezed his daughter's hand a in a lame gesture of comfort.

"We'll get a message out to Jane and Graham," he promised. "We'll work something out."

Catherine didn't look too convinced, and as another bout of treacherous tears fell, she crumpled into his arms once more. Harry sat there, his mind whirling; his heart thundering inside his ribcage. He had been musing only this morning about missing aspects of his old life. But he certainly hadn't wanted this. Now he found himself trying to remember how exactly he was supposed to respond in the face of such a crisis. It had been six years. And his circumstances were entirely different. What exactly could he do now that he was over 10,000 miles away from London and legally dead?

And all he kept coming back to was Ruth. He needed Ruth. Now. For as long as he'd known her, she had been the calming voice in his ear: his morality, his conscience, his guiding light. She stopped him from making irrational decisions in the face of calamity, and right now, he wasn't sure he could be trusted _not_ to make an irrational decision – not when everything he held dear was on the line. Ruth would be well into her shift by now, but that couldn't be helped. He needed to call her_. Now. _

* * *

**Apologies for another delay. This chapter was really tricky to write as it dealt with a lot of expo that's necessary for the rest of the story to work, and I wanted to get that right. Thank you wofldrum, Gregoriana, fcpatechies, Alias47 and the lovely guest for your reviews - I am grateful to every single one of you. And thank you to all you readers who are sticking with me. All the best and take care xx**


	8. Chapter 8: The Contact

Ruth sat perched in the armchair opposite Harry and Catherine, her mouth hung wide open in shock. When Harry had called her at work, she had known immediately that something was wrong. Harry never called during work hours, except for the time when Lottie's school had sent her home sick. So, of course, her panicked thoughts had immediately turned to her daughter. Harry had been quick to reassure her that Lottie was fine, but that he and Catherine needed to speak to her as a matter of urgency. Now, sitting there opposite father and daughter, having just heard Harry regurgitate most of Catherine's tale, she could see why. She had sensed that something was troubling the young woman. But there was no way she could have predicted this.

"Wow," she whistled, still working hard to digest all that she'd been told.

"Is that all you can say? '_Wow_'?"

"Catherine, _please_," Harry warned.

Catherine rolled her eyes but made no more snide remarks. It was an interesting yet somewhat confusing dynamic to see Harry back in control; even able to rein in his daughter's temper. Clearly they had had a good talk, and possibly resolved some of the issues plaguing their relationship. Ruth was a little unnerved to find out how cross he would be with her later, when they inevitably discussed her huge indiscretion with the letters. She hoped he'd see that she'd only been trying to help. But that had to be put on the backburner for now, because Catherine's news was very disturbing indeed. Harry had been right to call her. They needed to act fast.

"What do you think?" Harry put to her quietly.

His eyes were wide and uncharacteristically lost. It was at that moment that Ruth knew she was going to have to jumpstart the proceedings. Out of the three of them, she was probably the most objective, and she could see from the anxiety in Harry's gaze that he was depending on her to help him make a rational decision. She could do this. She could analyse the information and advise the best course of action. It had been six years but that particular skill never really went away.

"What did you say this faction was called?" she asked.

Something about its name had struck a chord with her and she wanted to solve that particular mystery before deciding what to do next.

Catherine folded her arms across her chest; the picture of a grumpy teenager, "Alfurasan Alarbe,"

Ruth nodded, "Yes, that's what I thought you said." She gulped then glanced warily up at Harry. "It's Arabic."

"No shit," the blonde muttered. "I thought you were supposed to be some kind of genius."

This time, they ignored her. Harry just motioned with his eyes for Ruth to carry on.

"Translated, it means The Four Horsemen."

Even Catherine dropped the sulky teenager act to look anxious at that. Harry's face slowly drained of colour.

"As in: of the Apocalypse?" he croaked.

Ruth nodded, alarm bells starting to ring uncomfortably in her gut, "Yes."

"Well, that doesn't sound good."

"No," she agreed, screwing up her face as she tried to remember why the name seemed so familiar. She was sure she had come across it somewhere before. And then she remembered. "We picked up chatter on a group called 'The Four Horsemen' less than a year before we left."

Harry frowned, "I don't remember that."

Ruth flashed him a wry smile, "You weren't there at the time. You were still on enforced leave because of the tribunal."

Harry rolled his eyes at the memory.

"What chatter?" Catherine piped up, in spite of herself. "You said you picked up chatter. What did it say?"

Ruth bit her lip. Trying to think back seven years to that tiny blip on the Grid's radar was rather difficult.

"It was just little titbits of information," she recalled slowly. "A little bit here, a little bit there – nothing concrete and nothing the bigwigs up in their shiny offices thought it worth concerning ourselves over. The Horsemen just seemed like another crackpot bunch of theorists. They had an ideology, but no actual means of bringing their plans into fruition."

"Well they seem to have been allowed to succeed on that front, don't they?" Harry grumbled. "What exactly_ were_ their plans?"

"Basically, they aspired to bring about chaos and destruction within the UK."

"There – that's it," Catherine nodded, momentarily forgetting her resentment towards Ruth. "_That_'_s _the sort of thing they were talking about."

"But there was no mention of any Syrian connections."

"When would this have been?" Harry frowned, narrowing his eyes as he fought to remember. "2011. So the UK government were already expressing displeasure at Syria's regime, even if the conflict hadn't yet started."

"I suppose that would explain why it didn't throw up any red flags at Five or Six," Ruth nodded. "Back then, chatter was all it _would _have been. The beginnings of a faction of Daesh, developed due to dissatisfaction at the UK's interference."

"An organisation that's flourished in the last few years," Harry continued. "And now they have everything they need." He paused and cast a small smile at the blonde sitting next to him. "Well... _had_."

"But now they're coming after me," Catherine reminded him tightly. "And as you said, they might go after Mum and Gray. So instead of yakking our backsides off, can we actually start _doing_ something about it?!"

The younger woman looked as if she was only just about holding herself together, and Ruth felt for her. She wanted to take her in her arms and hold her as she would console Harry or Lottie, but she knew the gesture would not be welcome. Not from her.

Ruth wasn't happy about this new revelation herself. If the blonde was as careful as she claimed, then it would probably take a while for anyone to track her to Beechworth. But once they did, it wouldn't be hard to find her. It was a small town and people talked. Someone would have seen Catherine down on the beach talking to her and Lottie, and that would lead the trail straight to the Caravan Park... to them. And Ruth was damned if she was going to let any harm come to _any_ of her family. She should have known that the last six years were too good to be true; that their old life would catch up with them eventually. It seemed Harry had been very wrong about the bloody Jabberwocky. The question was, what could they actually do about it?

"Do you still have that email address for Malcolm?" she asked Harry.

"Yes, though I don't know if he still uses it."

"Surely it's worth a try?"

"That's what I was thinking: get a message to Malcolm. He can contact Five and get Jane and Graham to safety."

Ruth failed to hide a small smile. She wondered vaguely why he had been so desperate for her help in the first place. She could see some of the old Section Head persona slipping through, and with it came the instinct to know exactly what to do.

"And you needed me here to help you with that decision because...?" she trailed off amusedly.

"Because I just wanted to check whether_ you_ thought it was a good idea," he answered sheepishly, returning the smile. "What with me being rather... emotionally compromised, I didn't know if I was being too... hedonistic... irrational."

For some reason, it saddened Ruth to hear Harry feel so unsure of himself; so hesitant about his decision-making. He had rarely faced such inner-conflict back on the Grid. True, he had always valued her opinion, yet he had also be stickler for following his own gut, and had had no trouble making the final call. But then, she supposed, things had changed over the last six years. _They_ had changed. They had become a team. They had grown used to making decisions together, not as boss and subordinate, but as equals – _partners._ For them to stop doing that now simply because the conversation held a flavour of their old working rapport would probably be insulting to the relationship they had worked so hard to build. And so she stopped allowing herself to feel sad and smiled at him instead.

"I think it's perfectly rational under the circumstances."

"Good," Harry nodded, relieved. "Well, I suppose there's no time like the present."

And with that, he got up from the sofa and strode from the room to go and fetch a laptop. His fingers brushed lightly across Ruth's shoulders as he passed, and she shivered delightedly at the touch. Catherine didn't fail to notice the obvious display of affection. She narrowed her eyes at the older woman, her gaze mutinous once more. Of course, Ruth noticed that she was being glowered at, but didn't have it in her to pass comment. It was pretty uncomfortable being the object of such scrutiny, however she had known as soon as the blonde's parentage had been revealed that this... alliance... wasn't going to be easy. That was okay. She could cope with that for now. At least the rift between Catherine and Harry didn't seem quite so wide anymore. That was what mattered.

For a good few minutes, the two women just sat there in heavy silence. The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife. Ruth tried to think of how she could phrase what she wanted to say without setting Catherine off again. In the end, she flashed the younger woman a somewhat awkward smile.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, trying to communicate how genuinely horrified she was. "I'm so sorry that you've had to go through so much in the last few days... well... in the last six years, actually."

Catherine's defences immediately shot up.

"I don't want your pity, thanks very much!"

Ruth paused and ducked her head, "It's not pity, Catherine. I care."

Catherine scoffed loudly, "_Care_?! How can _you _care? You don't even know me!"

"That's true, but that doesn't mean I don't care."

"Yeah!" the younger woman spat. "You care so much that you dragged my dad halfway across the world to play Happy Families, whilst you let his _real_ family believe he was dead!"

Ruth felt like she had been punched in the gut. She had quietly hoped that Harry classed her as part of his real family too. But what could she really say to argue? The blonde was right. She _had_ been largely responsible for Harry's departure from England, and thusly, his life. She chewed her lip and stared in mock fascination at the coffee table, hoping the guilt wasn't visible on her face.

"Thank you for talking to him," she offered in the end.

"Yeah, well... I didn't do it for you."

Ruth nodded. She had been under no illusions there. She was just pleased the letters had helped. Hopefully they had shown Catherine that Harry was not the heartless bastard she and so many others misconstrued him to be.

"We er... we told Lottie this morning," she murmured softly. "about who you are. She's rather excited to have a sister... and she really liked you."

Catherine grunted and looked away. Realising she couldn't continue an earnest conversation whilst gazing at a coffee table, Ruth gathered her courage and peered back up at the younger woman. The blonde's body was thrumming with something she couldn't quite define. Anger, maybe? Fear? Confusion? Or maybe a mixture of all three?

"I... I'm not expecting you to like me," she began softly. "Not at all."

"Good. Because I don't. I think you're a selfish, interfering, know-it-all bitch, and I think you're way too young for my dad."

That stung as well, but Ruth persevered. She was a big girl now. It had taken years, but she was now able to live life without worrying what other people thought of her.

"Just... if we could just try and be civil – for Harry and Lottie's sakes – I would be very grateful. Harry thinks the world of you – "

" – Well, that's news to me," Catherine interjected bitterly.

"He does," Ruth assured her. "Believe me, I know. He's not always very good at saying how he feels, but he really does adore you. And I think very possibly, Lottie might wind up adoring you too, and I don't want either of them to get hurt by any ill-feeling between us. And with everything that's probably about to happen, we need to be coming together rather than splintering apart. So please. If we could just try. _Try_ and make it work."

Catherine huffed out a reluctant sigh, glaring back at Ruth with distrustful eyes.

"Fine."

"Thank you."

"But I still don't like you."

"Fine," Ruth nodded curtly, not having expected this opinion to have changed in the last minute.

It was obvious that this alliance was not going to be easy. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

* * *

Malcolm Wynn-Jones was just whistling a modest rendition of 'La donna è mobile' to himself, as he carted a fresh cup of tea upstairs when he heard it. A sharp bleep from his computer. With a little effort, he jogged up the remaining steps and hurried along to his office.

That had sounded suspiciously like an email alert. He rarely got emails – just occasional notifications from his magazine subscriptions, or infrequent messages from Calum Reed enthusing over the latest in technological outputs. He always welcomed the opportunity to talk all things tech – it was something he had rather missed since Colin died. And as sad as it sounded, he even found some mild interest in reading spam from his various subscriptions. However, it immediately became apparent that _this_ email wasn't from Calum _or _his magazines. It was a notification advising him that a message had just been sent to a connected email address – the_ emergency_ email he reserved for ex-MI-5 officers who had gotten themselves into a tight spot. He hadn't had cause to use that email for about five years.

Heart thumping wildly in his chest, Malcolm extracted the little notebook he kept concealed beneath his desk. He rifled through its pages and found the right password. It took no time at all to type it in. The email was encrypted, of course, but that was a good sign; the sender had obviously been well-trained. It didn't take him long to decrypt it and when he did, his thundering heart actually stopped. He read the email once, blinked, swallowed, then read it again. It wasn't any less shocking on the second read. He had long ago learnt to expect the unexpected. But this... this he hadn't seen coming.

* * *

Calum Reed twirled his pen deftly between his fingers, skimming though what felt like the billionth file that morning. His eyes were starting to water; a combination of the harsh Grid lighting and the obscenely small print of paper-based intel. He vastly preferred their current digital filing system. At least then, he had the delightful option of zoom button. But every so often, all case officers were required to do routine 'shopkeeping': reading through old transcripts before cross-examining them with current intel, to see if any danger zones just happened to pop up. It was boring, dogsbody work, and he hated it. But it was his job, so what choice did he have?

He tore his eyes from the page, tutted loudly and propelled his arms into the air to stretch his aching limbs. He stole a quick glance round at his colleagues and sighed. On busy days he could blind himself to the fact that he was now one of the oldest on the Grid. But on days like these, when there was nothing else to do but read and watch, he couldn't help but notice the age gap. These kids – and some were scarcely more than kids – seemed so fresh-faced and excitable. He experienced a rare swoop of envy as he remembered that he too had been like that once. Then he realised himself and shook his head. That way of thinking was paradoxical: it only made him feel older and thus, _act_ older. Some of the young analysts already called him 'Grandpa' and yet he was only thirty-seven. Thirty-seven was still quite young! It just so happened that this was a young man's game – a _very_ young man's game.

If he was a wallowing man, he might have declared that he felt a teeny-tiny, eensy-weensy, itsy-bitsy bit lonely. _Maybe_. Most of the people he had come to know during his seven years on the Grid had gone. All that remained was himself, Bart (AKA Caractacus Bartholomew; AKA The-Idiot-Who-Makes-The-Tea) and, of course, Dimitri. Yet his and Dimitri's on-off friendship had soured since the Incident. And it had become virtually non-existent since the older man had been promoted to Section Head. Now, the Admiral was white-faced, stressed and haggard-looking by default, and he, Calum, didn't even have the energy to get on his nerves anymore. It was like they'd become a shadow of their former selves. And as for Erin... well... they didn't even_ mention_ Erin.

He sighed, tugged open his desk drawer, and withdrew a half-empty bag of gobstoppers. He was just about to pop a juicy red one into his mouth when his mobile rang. He groaned, dropped the gobstoppers back into his drawer and picked up the call.

"Yeah?" he snapped, not even bothering to hide his irritation.

"Hello, Calum?"

He frowned. Despite recognising the voice, he couldn't really place it, "Yeah?"

"It's Malcolm. Malcolm Wynn-Jones."

"Malcolm!" Calum cheered, his mood lifting slightly. "Long time, no hear! You didn't have to call. You could've just emailed me back. Not that it's not nice to hear from you, but – "

"Yes, er... I'm er... I'm afraid this isn't a social call. I'm... I'm not quite sure how to..."

Calum frowned. In the few times he had met Malcolm, it wasn't rare for the older man to become somewhat tongue-tied. Social interaction definitely wasn't his strong suit. But his tone seemed to transcend all ordinary awkwardness now. In fact, there was a definite edge to his voice; something that sounded suspiciously akin to fear. Plus his breathing was distinctly off, coming in frequent, short, shaky pants.

"What's up? You okay?"

"Yes. Oh yes, I'm fine. It's er... it's just that I've had an email from... well, you're not going to believe this..."

"Believe what?"

"Is... is Dimitri there?"

"No, he's in a meeting with the Home Secretary."

"Right... right, um... well... I'm not quite sure how to proceed."

"Proceed with _what_? You're being pretty damn vague here, Malcolm."

"Right, yes... sorry," the older man rambled, and Calum could practically see the retired techie shaking his head at his own ineptitude. "I suppose I'm still in shock."

"Shock?"

"I've... I've just had an email from Harry Pearce."

For a moment, everything seemed to stop. The general hubbub of the Grid faded and all Calum could hear was Malcolm's shaky breathing reverberating against his eardrum. Memories of six years ago flooded to the forefront of his mind; recollections of a gruff, middle-aged man and his gentle-hearted analyst, and the love story that had become something of MI-5 legend.

"Wait... what?" he croaked.

"I've had an email from Harry Pearce," Malcolm repeated, sounding just as bamboozled as before.

"As in Harry Pearce, former Section Head?"

"Do you know another Harry Pearce?"

"Okay, okay," Calum snorted, some of the shock melting away at Malcolm's uncharacteristic sass. "Well, where the hell did he spring up from?"

"_Where,_ I don't know. Last I heard, he and Ruth had settled somewhere out of reach of Six. But there was no way of replying because their slave email account was deactivated – presumably by Ruth to avoid being traced."

"So they don't actually know that their names were cleared like... four years ago?"

"If they had, I suspect they would've come home by now."

Calum absently pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to get his head around this perplexing new turn of events.

"So why has Harry suddenly contacted you now?"

"His daughter's somehow crossed paths with him."

"His daughter? But wasn't she with him?"

"No, his oldest daughter. Catherine. You might have met her at the funeral."

Calum shrugged, forgetting that Malcolm couldn't actually see him. He hadn't really taken in much of the funeral, to be honest. He'd been there to keep up appearances and to show respect, but he had left immediately after the service. He hadn't felt comfortable watching people mourn a man who he knew to actually be very much alive.

"Anyway, Catherine seems to have found herself in some serious trouble," Malcolm continued. "Harry needs us to get his ex-wife and Catherine's brother to a safe house."

"A safe house?!" Calum spluttered, his eyebrows shooting to his hairline. "Exactly what 'trouble' is she in?!"

"_Big _trouble," Malcolm supplied, rather unhelpfully. "And apparently it spells even worse trouble for national security too, so we need to take it seriously."

"Are you actually going to tell me what this _trouble_ is, or are we going to have to play Twenty Questions?"

"I don't want to do it over the phone," Malcolm insisted, a sudden strength emboldening his voice and reminding Calum just why this dear, sweet, awkward man had been able to thrive in the cutthroat world of MI-5 for so long. "I'm going to drive up to London and collect Catherine's family. Could I bring them back to the Grid? I'll explain everything when we get there."

Still rather bewildered, Calum couldn't see he had any choice but to answer in the affirmative.

"Yeah, okay. Are you setting off now?"

"As soon as I've called Jane and Graham. I can be with you in about three hours."

"Yeah... yeah okay."

And with that, Malcolm rang off. Calum was left staring at his phone in a stunned silence. Somehow, in the space of the last ten minutes, his day had been knocked completely out of kilter. Harry Pearce, Ruth Evershed and their baby girl had disappeared into the abyss six years ago, never to be seen again. And within a year of them leaving, Calum had resigned himself to the fact that he never _would_ hear those names again. But how wrong was he?

He sighed, dropped his phone onto the desk and delved instinctively back into the drawer for his gobstoppers. Right now, he was craving a much-needed sugar rush. As he shoved one in his mouth, his eyes flicked eagerly towards the pods, awaiting Dimitri's return. He could only imagine what the Admiral was going to say about this.

* * *

Ruth leant against the doorframe and watched her baby sleep. She cherished these rare, peaceful moments. Lottie had such an angelic little face, especially in sleep. She was all soft lines and cute dimples, and every so often she would let out an adorable little snuffle that made Ruth's heart swell with a fierce, insurmountable love.

It was nice to see her sleeping so peacefully after the disturbance the night before – and indeed, following the tribulations of the day. The little girl had been delighted to see Catherine sitting in the front room after school, and had immediately started yammering away to her about anything and everything. This included her Family Tree Project, which had made the blonde visibly uncomfortable. Yet Catherine, for all her anger and heartbreak, had made a laudable effort to engage. Her patience waned thin, however, when Lottie made the blunt inquiry: "Why did you say your name was Ava when it wasn't?" The woman's face had soured and she had excused herself to the bathroom, leaving Lottie to stare after her, aghast.

"I upset her, didn't I?" she fretted, her big blue eyes wide with alarm.

"Don't worry, darling," Ruth had tried to reassure her. "She's just got a lot of grown-up things on her mind."

Lottie had insisted that now she was six, she was grown-up enough to understand. However, Ruth had managed to steer her away from that particular topic by suggesting that they make dinner together for Catherine and the family. Of course, Lottie had jumped at the opportunity. She loved helping her mother in the kitchen, and was even more thrilled to cook for her new big sister.

Dinner had been a sedate affair, with everyone, including Catherine, trying to put on a brave face for the sake of Lottie. But despite being young, the little girl was incredibly perceptive. She had read the tension in the room and realised that her attempts to brighten Catherine's spirits had fallen very flat indeed. In the end, she stopped chattering altogether. They lapsed into a solemn silence that lasted all night long.

Catherine kept excusing herself to go to the bathroom. Had she not returned with a red, blotchy face each time, Ruth might have inferred she had a bladder problem. It pained her to see the poor woman have to physically sneak off just to have a good cry. Catherine had wanted to return to Caravan 5 for a bit of privacy, but Harry wouldn't hear of it. Having been told that the psychotic Ollie Kinkaid was after her, he had told her in no uncertain terms that she was to stay at the cottage with them. He had made up the sofa for her, and by that stage, Catherine had been too tired to even argue.

Lottie's bedtime had eventually come about and without a second's thought, she padded over to Catherine and slipped her twig-like arms around her middle. Catherine had frozen in bewilderment. For an instant, she seemed to be on the verge of tears. Then her eyes flicked nervously towards the door, as if contemplating whether or not to bolt. In the end, she came to her senses and reciprocated the hug. Harry and Ruth had shared a tender glance. The embrace gave them hope that maybe – just maybe – their family stood a chance at coming together.

Now, Ruth relished in watching their baby sleep for just a few seconds longer, before shutting the door and creeping back along the landing. She hadn't come very far when she heard it. Crying. No. Not crying. Sobbing. Soul-crushing, gut-wrenching sobbing: the sound of a woman gasping, fighting, straining to come to terms with the agony of a broken heart. Ruth's own heart shattered just listening to the poor woman's plight. She stood there, debating whether or not to leave the blonde to her solitude. She quickly decided she couldn't. She just couldn't. So, wary of what she might find, she tiptoed slowly down the stairs.

The sitting room was shrouded in darkness, save for the standard lamp in the corner which was casting dim shadows against the wall. Catherine lay curled up on the sofa, weeping beneath a thin woollen blanket. Her whole frame was shuddering with the force of her sobs, and the elderly sofa seemed to be shaking with her.

"Catherine?"

Ruth inched into the room and hovered by the arm of the sofa, but Catherine barely acknowledged her presence. She curled further in on herself, sobbing still. She looked so young, so vulnerable lying there, and this time, Ruth didn't even _try _to stop herself from offering comfort. She reached out and laid a gentle hand on Catherine's ankle.

"Catherine – "

"Fuck off," the blonde choked out, hiding her tear-stained face in her hands.

"I don't' – "

"Fuck off!" Catherine repeated, louder and more irate this time. "Leave me alone."

Ruth sighed and lifted her hand from Catherine's ankle, stepping back to give her some space. Catherine had made her feelings quite clear, but that didn't make her any more willing to leave her when she was in such a wretched state.

"We'll be upstairs if you need anything."

Catherine gave a watery squeak, but made no further effort to reply – not even to chivy her away. And as her body began to spasm with more wracking sobs, Ruth just stood there, upset and awkward and feeling utterly, utterly useless. She desperately wanted to comfort the girl; to help her see that she didn't have to cry alone. But it was obvious that Catherine's grief was still too raw to be shared. And so, with a heavy heart, Ruth did as she was bidden, backing out of the room and trudging back upstairs.

Harry had already changed into his pyjamas by the time she entered their room. He was folding his clothes meticulously over the chair by the bed, the neatness of his actions contrasting sharply with the tumultuous emotions on his face. He glanced up as she entered. It took him less than a second to see her distress.

"Everything alright?"

Ruth shook her head and silently began to strip off. Harry paused, his eyes lingering on her for a moment. Then he crossed the room, picked up her nightie and began to help her change. His touch was light and tender, and not a word was said between them the whole time. He could see that she was upset and equally, she could read his devastation. Though he always did his best to shield his emotions from her, his heartbreak was plain to see. She knew him well enough to know that he was still beating himself up over the whole sorry mess.

The clothes she had been wearing ended up being strewn haphazardly over the floor, but neither lover cared. He had scarcely finished buttoning up her nightgown when she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, breathing in his strong, reassuring scent. Harry wound his own arms around her smaller frame and they clung to one another fiercely. This wasn't about sex. Not tonight. It was about grief and a mutual need for the comfort that only they could give one another. It was about two people who loved each other immeasurably, and had just been forced to crash land from the blissful Cloud Nine, on which they had built their lives for the past six years.

They couldn't resent Catherine for her sudden appearance. They were both glad she had found _them, _of all people. Their training had served them well and they knew, theoretically speaking, how to handle this. But they had both been in the service long enough to know that it only took one small catalyst like this for the scum in the universe to come crawling out of the woodwork. Not only was Catherine (and possibly Graham and Jane) at risk, but they _all_ were. Anyone who found Catherine staying here would inevitably come after them too.

Ruth was terrified because this was exactly what she had been trying to avoid. It had been a major reason for leaving England. She hadn't wanted Lottie to grow up in danger. She hadn't wanted her to have to look over her shoulder every minute of every day, just because of who her family were. Now, it was like her worst nightmares were coming true.

They didn't have long to decide what to do. They had contacted Malcolm, and to their eternal relief, he had replied almost immediately, telling them that he was going to get Graham and Jane to safety and then hand over their intel to the Grid. He had also advised that they come home, citing the shock revelation that their names had been cleared long ago, and that there was no reason for them to live a life on the run anymore.

Except in many ways, Ruth didn't want to go back. Moving to Beechworth had been a fresh start; an opportunity to leave behind the pain and the raging guilt. She had been able to lay so many of her demons to rest. She had been able to let herself love and be loved; she had stopped feeling guilty about pursuing the relationship with Harry that had always seemed so impossible London. She had been allowed to raise Lottie in a non-hostile environment, and their daughter had grown up happy and healthy as a result. Would going back just reverse all of the progress they had made? And what about Lottie and her little circle of friends? What about the Caravan Park they had worked so hard to keep afloat? The life they had built for themselves in Beechworth wasn't perfect, but it was nevertheless a good and happy life.

But then she looked at Harry and saw the adoration in his eyes as he watched Catherine. He had missed her – utterly and completely. And whatever the outcome of this mess, Catherine would probably return to England. Her mother and brother were there, and she would need their support. Ruth couldn't ask Harry to bid them goodbye again. Plus, over the last six years, she had seen the longing that filled his gaze as they discussed old friends and the life they left behind. Neither of them missed the death or destruction, but Ruth was very much aware that Harry had spent a large proportion of his life working for MI-5. He had been an intelligence officer for over thirty years and soldier before that. He was used to being useful. He thrived off serving his country. That sheer unbridled nobility ran through every atom, every cell, every drop of blood that filled his body. It was just who he was, and to keep him running a Caravan Park for the rest of his life when they actually had the option to go home... well... surely that was just cruel?

It was a debate with no easy answer, but after another emotionally-charged day, neither lover was willing to discuss it now. The time would come when they would have to make a decision. And soon. But for now, they just wanted to crawl beneath the covers and hold each other until they fell asleep.

Harry glanced down at Ruth and gently tucked a wayward strand of hair back behind her ear.

"You're thinking very loudly."

She gave a small, self-conscious smile, "Am I?"

"Yes," he said simply, stooping to press a tender kiss to her forehead. "You are."

Ruth loosened her arms from around his neck, "Sorry. Force of habit, I suppose."

"Don't be sorry. We've all got a lot to think about."

She nodded minutely. They just stood there for another moment or two, their hands gradually finding each other's.

"I'm glad Catherine came to talk to you."

"Mmm... thanks to you."

Ruth froze at that. She didn't sense any ire in his voice, but she was still hyper-aware that what she had done had been a despicable breach of his privacy. She wouldn't blame him for being ticked off. She bit her lip and glanced up.

"Are you angry with me?"

"No," And she could see from his soft smile that he meant it. "I _was_. I was bloody _furious. _But now I realise why you did it. And if it wasn't for you, we might never have known about this bloody Ollie Kinkaid... _or_ the Horsemen."

Ruth nodded. He was probably right there.

"But how the hell did you know about those letters in the first place?"

She hesitated, failing to see how helpful it was to divulge that she had actually known about them from the very start. She had found the first one tucked away in a rusty old coffee tin back when they were living in the caravan. But to admit this would probably embarrass him, or damage his status as a super spy, so she just shrugged evasively:

"Oh, you know... psychic."

Harry stared at her disbelievingly for a moment, before breaking out into another soft smile, "I always suspected."

Ruth was surprised but glad that he didn't push the issue. They both chuckled, then silently came together again, rocking slowly on the spot, her head pillowed against his shoulder; her arms wound tightly around him.

"I'm sorry Catherine was so rude to you," he offered after a while.

"Don't worry. I've been in her shoes. I think it's probably a rite of passage for daughters to hate their parents' new significant others'."

"Still, that doesn't give her the right to be so unkind."

"She's hurting, Harry," Ruth reminded him gently.

She thought of the poor young woman sobbing her heart out on the sofa downstairs, and felt her stomach clench painfully. Although she couldn't see his face, she could sense Harry's already flailing spirits dampen. His hold of her tightened imperceptibly, and his breathing began to stutter out in short, sharp bursts against her hair. She traced a soothing hand up and down his back in the only gesture of comfort she knew she could give in that moment.

"She's not a little girl anymore," he murmured sadly. "Far from it – she's getting towards her late thirties, and yet... somehow, I... I just want to protect her like I did when she was Lottie's age – "

"And that's okay," Ruth assured him softly. "It's okay to feel like that."

"But it's _not _okay that it's all a little too late. I can't help but wonder 'what if'? What if I'd stayed in England? Would she have still gone to Syria? Would she have still met this Kinkaid character?"

"If you'd stayed in England, you'd most likely have ended up behind bars," Ruth reasoned, still trying to curb that horrible pang of guilt. "You wouldn't have been much good to her in prison. And anyway, Catherine seems like a pretty strong-willed woman. I get the impression that if her heart was truly set on Syria, she'd still have gone – with or without your consent, and whether you were still around or not."

Harry sighed, "Yes... yes, you're probably right."

His shoulders slumped and he suddenly broke away from her, trudging over to the bed and collapsing down on the edge with a frustrated grunt. The worn bedsprings groaned beneath his bulk, but Harry didn't even flinch. His hunched posture and weary expression depicted a man very much struggling to balance the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"I just... I don't know," he swallowed, running a hand over his tired eyes. His fingers ended up steepled in front of his mouth in a motion of prayer. "I can't bear seeing her so despondent. And as for what she saw... and what she _did_ to get that information. She should never have had to bear that burden."

Ruth paused, then came and sat down next to him on the bed, reaching out to gently squeeze his knee.

"She's got her father's strength. And his innate goodness."

Harry snorted darkly, "I fear you think far too much of me, sweetheart."

"And I fear you think far too little of _yourself_."

"I was a terrible father. I still _am_ a terrible father. I let this happen to her."

"You had no control over this," Ruth told him firmly, bringing his steepled hands down from his face and holding them tightly in hers. "She's a grown woman. She made her own choices." Harry looked as if he was going to interrupt so she hurried on before he could. "As for being a bad father... you're an amazing father to Lottie. Catherine and Graham's childhoods just so happened to fall into the time when you were working for Five. Believe me, I know – the very nature of that job means you have to sacrifice everything and everyone you love. You had to choose between being a good father and a good spy. It was an impossible, impossible choice, but there's no way you could've have done both. In the end, you realised that you had to choose being a good spy over anything else – for the sake of the greater good."

"But that doesn't make it right. That doesn't make up for all the crap I've put her though – and Graham, for that matter."

"No," she agreed softly. "But you have the chance to make things right; to take care of Catherine and Graham; to show them that you regret what happened in the past and that you love them just as much as I know you do."

"You make it sound so easy."

"Definitely not easy," Ruth murmured, thinking of the painful purple bruises hiding beneath his pyjama shirt. "But doable. You've already made a good start."

Harry scoffed, "The only reason she's not running for the hills right now is because she's upset."

"Yes, precisely. She's upset. And because of that, she needs her dad – probably now more than ever."

"And she's _got_ me. It's just..." he trailed off, blinking as he realised that he wasn't actually sure what he had been going to say. For a moment, silence enveloped the room as he struggled to label his own emotions. Then he sighed and shook his head, as if suddenly realising that beating himself up like this wasn't helping. So he swallowed down the rest of his frustration and gave a sheepish smile before uttering a simple, firmer, "She's got me."

Ruth planted a small, chaste kiss on his cheek, "I know."

Harry's smile softened once more, and he lifted a single finger to stroke gently down her own cheek, "What would I do without you, hmm?"

She shrugged, "Luckily, you won't have to find out."

His eyes turned serious, "I know I promised yesterday that the Jabberwocky wouldn't find us here – "

" – You didn't know what was coming. You couldn't _possibly _have known – "

" – But I _will_ protect you, Ruth," he vowed, his eyes glued solemnly to hers. "And Lottie. And Catherine. And Graham. I won't let anything happen to you. _Any _of you."

His quiet declaration was sweet and unnerving and rather old-fashioned. Uttered by anyone else, it would have sounded like a bad case of White Knight Syndrome. But Harry had always been a man outside his time. His moral compass and intense desire to do the 'right thing' had been what set him apart from the other morally-questionable, high-grade MI-5 officers. That goodness had been one of the many reasons she fell for him in the first place. So hearing those words spill from his lips was actually rather unsurprising. And yet whilst deeply touched, his vow incited a prickle of terror up her spine. The sincerity in his tone left her with absolutely no doubt whatsoever that he meant it. And Harry didn't do anything by halves. She knew that he would fight till his very last breath to protect her and his family. But it was the prospect of that very last breath that terrified her.

"I appreciate that. I do," she murmured slowly. "But if you're busy protecting _us_, then who's protecting you?"

Harry blinked, as if this thought hadn't even occurred to him. And for some reason, this irritated her a little.

"We're a team, Harry. Partners. We do this _together_. We look after Lottie, Catherine and Graham _together_. And if you insist on looking after me, then fine. Just as long as you understand that _I'll _be there looking after _you_ right back."

"Ruth – "

" – And don't you even _think_ about doing something stupid or reckless, Harry Pearce – "

" – Ruth – "

" – Because if you get shot... if you get _killed_ trying to be noble, _I _will kill you!"

"Ruth!"

Harry interrupted her passionate tirade mid-flow, and she had to physically restrain herself from continuing beyond a small, irate, "What?!"

It took her a couple of seconds to come back to herself and when she did, she realised that Harry was staring at her with the biggest 'heart eyes' she had ever seen. She flamed red and ducked her head.

"Okay."

She glanced up at him in astonishment, "What?"

"Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, I won't do anything stupid or reckless. Okay, I won't get shot. And okay, partners. I'll look after you. You'll look after me. We'll _both_ look after the children."

It took her a second to get past the word 'children', especially given the not-so large age gap between her and Catherine. It took her even longer to overcome her surprise that he'd agreed. Whilst he no longer treated her like the fragile china doll she had been six years ago, he could also be a little overprotective from time to time.

"Really?"

"Really. Now come here, you bloody bonkers woman."

She allowed herself to be folded into his arms and tugged backwards until they were lying on the bed. They were facing entirely the wrong way, with their feet dangling off the mattress, and she still needed to brush her teeth. But for the moment, they didn't care. They just rested against one another, silent and scared, but thankful to at least be together in the face of uncertainty.

* * *

Ollie Kinkaid entered the boundaries of Beechworth Caravan Park. It had taken far too long, far too many bribes and a decent number of dead bodies for him to find Catherine bloody Townsend, but he was hopeful that he had finally succeeded. A local sitting at a barstool in some random pub had confirmed seeing her just this afternoon talking to the owner of the local Caravan Park. So here he was, in the dead of night, searching for his pest of a girlfriend – and he didn't care if he had to break down the doors of each trailer. He would find her. He would. He had come too far not to.

* * *

**Apologies again for the late update. The world is crazy at the moment! Thank you wolfdrum and Gregoriana for your reviews; they inspired me to keep writing! Question to readers as I'm increasingly aware of the length of my chapters: would you prefer shorter chapters, or are you happy with the length they are now? Many thanks for your continued support. Take care and stay safe xx**


	9. Chapter 9: The Build-Up

The next morning saw the four of them sitting round the dining table, munching cereal in suffocating silence. The atmosphere was still rife with a tension. Lottie was clutching Moo tightly in her lap whilst tackling a bowl of Weet-Bix. Her eyes kept sliding curiously across at Catherine, who was making little headway with her own breakfast. She repeatedly pushed her mushy cereal from one side of the bowl to the other, a habit that Ruth often tried to rule out with Lottie. Harry could see that she was itching to encourage the younger woman to eat. He met her gaze with a minute shake of the head, knowing that this would be an incredibly bad idea – not least because Catherine had taken so badly to her. Ruth understood immediately, nodding and returning to her cornflakes.

They were all rather glad when the silence was broken by the shrill ringing of the hallway phone – all except Catherine, who jumped nearly a foot in the air, sending her spoon spinning spectacularly across the table. It narrowly missed the open box of Cornflakes and ended up wedged between two table mats. Harry placed a reassuring hand on her arm whilst Ruth, unable to hide her concern, went to answer the call. Catching the odd snippets of muffled conversation from the hall, Harry stroked his thumb gently up and down his daughter's wrist in what he hoped was a soothing motion. Lottie glanced wide-eyed between her father and sister, then copied Harry's actions. The blonde let out a series of short, panicked pants before shaking her head and shrugging them off.

"I'm okay," she muttered, sounding anything but. "I'm alright."

Harry wondered just who she was trying to convince. Nevertheless, he let go as bidden and Lottie followed suit. The six-year-old was frowning, and he could practically see the little cogs in her brain writing up a long list of questions. Thankfully, Ruth returned before she had a chance to ask them.

"Who was that?" he asked quickly, jumping in before the little girl could open her mouth.

"Work," Ruth said simply, flashing a tired yet resolute smile at Lottie, and motioning for her to keep eating. "Our top benefactor's just decided that he can't come in this afternoon to discuss the new wing as planned, but he _can_ be there within the hour. I'll need to go in early."

"What do you mean 'work'? I thought you ran the Caravan Park?" Catherine jumped in, in spite of herself.

"Daddy runs the Caravan Park. Mummy works at the Museum," Lottie supplied helpfully, shovelling another spoonful of Weet-bix in her mouth.

"Oh."

"Mummy, if you're at work, who will take me to school?"

Harry and Ruth glanced at each other. They hadn't really had a chance to think that far ahead.

"Can Catherine take me?" the little girl pleaded, her ocean eyes lighting up at the prospect of spending some one-on-one time with her new big sister.

"No," Harry ruled firmly. "Catherine's staying here."

His eldest daughter scowled, "I'm a grown woman, Dad. You can't put me on house arrest."

"I'm not letting you out of my sight," Harry replied, as gently as he could.

He hoped Catherine wouldn't tell him to get stuffed and storm off again. For once, luck seemed to be on his side. The blonde continued to make clear her disgust, but made no further comment.

"Well then, it looks like you're _both _probably staying here," Ruth sighed, nodding in understanding at Harry's apologetic glance. "It's fine. I'll take Lottie with me. It's only an informal meeting. I'll just leave a little early to drop her off at school. Given the short notice, I doubt they'll mind."

"Please can I see the old street?" Lottie pleaded.

The museum boasted a replica of a Beechworth street from its classic Gold Rush era. It had fascinated Lottie from her very first visit, and on the odd occasion Ruth had taken her to work, she'd sit on a bench and happily soak up the aesthetics of the reconstruction. It seemed Lottie had inherited her mother's quiet appreciation for all things historical.

"I think you should just stick with me today, darling," Ruth told her, flashing a subtle glance at Harry. They both dreaded to think what, or rather who, might be prowling the streets of Beechworth.

Lottie frowned, "Why today?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've let me sit on the old street loads of times. Why can't I today?"

"Well..." Ruth stammered. "Because... because I said so. And I've only let you do that in the past if you promised to sit where I could see you."

"Couldn't I do that _today_, then?" Lottie begged. "Please? If I sit where you can see me?"

Her mother hesitated. Honestly, Harry mused, sometimes their daughter could be as equally stubborn as them. He met Ruth's eyes and gave an infinitesimal shrug as if to say 'where's the harm?' As long as Ruth could keep an eye on her, he didn't see why Lottie shouldn't visit her favourite attraction – if only to stop her bombarding them with questions. He could see the cogs still whizzing away inside her brain. She knew there was something going on. Ruth must have met that same realisation, because she finally relented with a reluctant sigh.

"Maybe. If we have time. But _only_ if I can see you. Deal?"

"Deal, Mummy."

* * *

Ollie Kinkaid was annoyed. No scratch that. Annoyed didn't even begin to cover it. He had been awake for nearly forty-eight hours straight, and had spent the best part of the night peering through caravan windows, only for his search to come up empty. Somehow, Catherine Townsend had managed to give him the slip _again. _Clearly, she was a lot cleverer than he had ever given her credit for.

He had been fond of her. Genuinely fond of her. She had a good sense of humour, passion abounds and was fantastic in bed. But the niggling things he had overlooked before, like her fierce loyalty to her country and her dogged determination to do the 'right thing', were no longer amusing. In fact, they contrasted starkly with his own loyalty to the Horsemen, and his resolve to do the right thing for _his_ people – and that was unforgivable. If he had learnt anything in his years of training, it was that the mission came first. Catherine had endangered his mission and therefore, however fond of her he had been, she now had to be eliminated.

But, damn it, he could only do that if he could find her! How could one documentarian cause so much trouble?! The trail had run cold and all he was left with was the owner of the Caravan Park – the woman with whom Catherine had been seen conversing with yesterday. So now, he was trying to work out how best to gain entrance to the old cobbled cottage at the edge of the park. He'd sooner not cause a scene, but with his low mood and depleting energy levels, he couldn't promise that the owner would remain alive once he got her on her own.

He decided that the obvious solution was to just knock under the pretence of wanting to hire a caravan. He didn't know what Catherine might have told this woman, and until he was surer of the playing field, acting dumb was the best way to go. However, just as he stepped out from behind the bushes, the front door swung open, revealing a petite, dark-haired woman. She was quite plain to his eyes, looking to be somewhere in her mid-forties, and she had a young girl with her. The child couldn't have been any more than five or six, and, besides her age, was the spitting image of the woman. That would be her daughter then. Dressed in a checkered uniform and toting a purple backpack, they were clearly bound for the school run. The little girl waited patiently for her mother to lock up, then clasped her hand and skipped happily by her side down the garden path.

Kinkaid licked his lips, trying to decide what to do. Then a slow, reptilian smile crept over his face. He had an idea.

* * *

Harry sat beside Catherine on the sofa, glancing absently around him in search of a conversation starter. They were both nursing mugs of sweet tea in an attempt to relax after the rather tense affair that had been breakfast. They sat in silence, but it wasn't an_ uncomfortable_ silence. The awkwardness had noticeably diminished after Ruth and Lottie's left. That saddened him more than he knew it should.

In the past, when locked in the comforting depths of his fantasy world, he had imagined Catherine and Ruth meeting. And every time, he had pictured them getting along. Ruth wasn't difficult to like: she had a gentle heart, a compassionate smile, a brilliant mind and a strong moral compass. And it was clear that any ill-feeling between the two women was completely one-sided. Part of him wanted to ask Catherine why she had taken against Ruth so, but the other remembered Ruth's words from the night before: _'I think it's probably a rite of passage for daughters to hate their parents' new significant others'_'. Except he couldn't imagine how _anyone_ could hate Ruth.

"So what do you do now?" Catherine voice suddenly rang out, shaking him from his misery.

"Hmm?"

"On a typical day, once Ruth and Lottie have gone, what do you do?"

"Oh," Harry murmured, fiddling with his mug as he thought of how best to describe his day – preferably without making him sound entirely unproductive. "Well... I generally keep busy – do odd jobs around the house; repair any faults with the caravans; keep up with invoices; sort out guests, as and when they need..."

Catherine frowned, surprise evident in her eyes, "And that's it?"

"That's it," Harry nodded, trying not to feel a little self-conscious at her reaction.

The blonde must have picked up on this because she waved an apologetic hand, "Sorry. Sorry... it's just..." she sighed, shaking her head, clearly still trying to process this entirely new life she had stumbled upon quite by accident. "It's hard to imagine you doing something so low-key and... well... normal."

Harry's lips curled into a tiny smile, "It's certainly different – I'll give you that."

"It's weird because..." she paused, as if trying to work out how best to phrase what she wanted to say. "Because when we were kids, you were always busy, always on the move, always flitting from one operation to the next, without even a little bit of time to sit and reflect and recuperate. And now... now you have nothing _but _time."

Harry arched an eyebrow. It was rather strange to hear her put it like that, but he supposed she was right. Ever since they had taken over ownership of the Caravan Park and they had settled into this sedate, small-town lifestyle, he had found himself with an awful lot of time on his hands. Time he still didn't always know how to fill.

Catherine sighed a heavy sigh. Harry searched his daughter's pale face and picked up on the telltale bitterness she was clearly fighting so valiantly to hide.

"You do know that I regret not spending more time with you and Graham, don't you?" he murmured, shamefacedly. "If I could do it all over again – "

"You'd probably do the same thing," Catherine finished firmly. "And as much as I hate to say it, you'd probably be right. Because the world needed saving and you were good at saving it."

Harry bit his lip and looked away.

"It's okay, Dad," Catherine shrugged, a little softer, gentler, than before. "I forgave you a long time ago for that. I know now that Mum was just as much to blame for your absence as you were."

"How do you work that out?"

"She told me. Years later. All those birthday parties and other stupid events you missed because she pretty much ordered you not to come. Because she was jealous of how much we both looked up to you. Because she didn't think tyou deserved that kind of attention. Not when she was the one who gave up her job to look after us."

"Jane suffered from very bad post-partum depression," Harry justified, not really sure why he was defending his ex-wife.

"That lasted most of our childhoods?" Catherine muttered sceptically. "No. I think she just enjoyed dishing our vitriol and poison."

Harry had rarely heard his daughter talk about her mother like this. He was fairly used to being on the _receiving end_ of her waspish rhetoric. But hearing Jane spoken about in such a derogatory manner was something new, and actually, it alarmed him more than he thought it would. Catherine and her mother had been thick as thieves for as long as he had known them.

"Did something happen between you and Jane while I was gone?" he asked cautiously.

Catherine shrugged in what was probably supposed to be an airy motion, but actually came out a lot more aggressively than she intended, "No. Only what I just said. She told me some cold, hard truths about your relationship – at your _funeral_, no less. She got wasted at the Wake and confessed her indiscretions to pretty much the entire room. And for the first time, I realised that she wasn't the martyr she painted herself to be. There were so many times she'd kept you from me and Gray... and now... or at least _then_, I thought... I wouldn't ever see you again. I wouldn't have a chance to make up for all those lost memories."

"_You _had nothing to make up for. It was _my_ fault."

"And Mum's."

"Well... yes, maybe your Mum's too," he conceded.

They lapsed into a small contemplative silence. Both took the time to take several, long gulps of tea. Harry found himself strangely unsettled by Catherine's description of his funeral. Her words circled mercilessly around his head, and it took almost all of his self-restraint not to pry. It was an obviously sensitive topic, and a rather bizarre one to discuss whilst very much still alive. After all, how often did one discuss one's funeral _after_ the fact? In the end, however, his self-restraint wavered, only to be overtaken by insatiable curiosity.

"Jane _really _got drunk at the Wake?"

"As a skunk," Catherine growled. "Turns out, it wasn't only Gray who had an alcohol problem."

Harry's heart sank at that. Not for Jane, though he did pity the depths to which she had crumbled – but for Graham. His beautiful baby boy, who had always been so bright, so sensitive, and so very susceptible to drink and drugs. He had blamed it on himself once. He knew that he had spent years drinking too much whiskey, and wondered if somewhere along the line, Graham had picked up on this. Then, after confessing these deepest, darkest fears to Ruth, she had helped him realise that he couldn't hold himself responsible for all his son's demons. Graham had fallen down the manhole of peer pressure during his late teens and _that_ was when the drink and drugs started. He hadn't really had any influence in his son's life by that point. Of course, he wished fervently that he had. But no. The sad truth was that by then, the two of them had barely even been speaking.

"How _is_ Graham?" he asked tentatively, unsure of whether he was going to like the answer. "Is he okay?"

His fears weren't exactly put at rest by Catherine's suddenly cagey expression. She bit her lip and lowered her gaze to her mug.

"Gray is... well, I think for the first time in years, Gray's actually happy."

He frowned, "Well then, surely that's a good thing?"

"Yes, of course it," the blonde murmured, though there was a wariness to her tone that distinctly set Harry on edge.

"Then why are you giving off all the signals in the known universe that everything _isn't _okay?"

"I... I'm not. Gray _is_ happy. It's just..."

"_What_?"

She sighed, flopping backwards into the folds of the sofa and banging her head frustratedly against the squashy fabric, "I honestly don't think it's something I have a right to talk to you about. It's something that needs to be done between you and Gray."

Harry could only blink in bewilderment. All he had asked was how his son was doing. Yet suddenly she was talking in riddles again, and treating the subject of his son's happiness as a subject of great mystery. Surely a simple answer wasn't too much to ask?

"I'm not following, Catherine. Either Graham's okay or not okay. Which one is it?"

"Gray's okay, I promise."

"But?"

Catherine rolled her eyes, "_But_ Gray's just... just been on quite a journey these last few years."

"What kind of journey? Are we talking rehab again?"

"No... well... _yes_, at first," she muttered, turning redder and redder under his intense scrutiny. He could see that she was growing more and more uncomfortable, but he couldn't bring himself to drop it. If his son was in trouble, he wanted to know. He may have been absent for six years, but never meant he stopped caring.

"At first?"

"But there've been no trips to rehab for the last three years," Catherine hurried on. "Not since Gray made some major changes..."

"What kind of changes?"

Catherine's limited patience finally wore thin and like an overworked pressure cooker, she suddenly blew up, "Can we stop with the twenty questions, Poirot?!"

She slammed her mug down onto the coffee table with a deafening crack, and shot him a death glare that Ros Myers would have been proud of.

Harry sighed, realising that his single-minded search for the truth had probably come off more as an impromptu interrogation. He had made that mistake more than a few times with Ruth, and she didn't take kindly to it either. He supposed it stemmed from all those years of interrogating enemy agents. Once he got in that frame of mind, it was hard to stop. It was a habit that he was working hard to break, and he had made marked progress in recent years. But once in a while – and usually when he was least expecting it – he slipped up.

"Sorry," he murmured. "I got a little carried away."

Catherine's eyes flashed irritably, as if to say 'No shit'.

"You got me worried about Graham, that's all."

The blonde sighed exasperatedly, but some of the tension in her face noticeably mellowed.

"Gray's _fine, _Dad. I just... need you to keep an open mind and not fly off the handle if and when the two of you next speak."

Her words were no less confusing than before. What exactly was she trying to hint at? Had Graham gone and made some big decision that she suspected he wouldn't approve of? A sideways career move into politics, perhaps? Or joining a cult? Or a spontaneous marriage to a woman he met less than a day before the wedding? There could be any number of things. Graham had always been a rather quiet, young man. Harry had never quite known what was going on in his head. Unlike Catherine's extroverted speak-before-you-think tendencies, Graham kept his cards very close to his chest. He internalised everything; so much so that Harry hadn't even realised the boy had been treading the rickety tightrope of drug addiction until he nearly OD'd at the tender age of nineteen.

Harry stared resignedly at his daughter. He was desperate to push her a little more; to demand to know exactly what she was concealing. But he also knew that pushing her in her already fragile state would be counterproductive and thoroughly unpleasant for them both. Teetering just beneath the surface was the knowledge of what she had endured, and he didn't want to make her life any harder than it already was. So quashing all his natural urges, he simply nodded.

"Okay, fine."

Catherine raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by how easily he had let it drop. Yet she flashed him a grateful smile, nodded, and knotted her hands in her lap as silence descended once more.

"So..." she mumbled. "What do we do now?"

"_You_ can rest," Harry told her, in a tone that broached absolutely no discussion. "You must be exhausted. And I'd be grateful if you could eat something. You hardly ate anything last night – _or_ this morning."

"I'm not exactly in the mood for food at the moment."

"I know. But please? Just a little something, to appease me."

Catherine released a wry chuckle, "I feel like I'm seven-years-old again and you're telling me to eat my vegetables."

"It doesn't have to be vegetables," Harry smirked. "You can even delve into our secret stash of chocolate biscuits, if you like."

The blonde hesitated, her lips curling into a sweeter, easier smile – a smile that lit up her hazel eyes and brightened her entire being. She was so very pretty when she smiled like that.

"Oh, well then," she said, somewhat shyly. "If chocolate biscuits are on offer..."

Harry grinned and rose to fetch the precious goodies. But he was barely up before Catherine spoke again.

"If I'm under strict instructions to vegetate and eat chocolate biscuits, what exactly are _you_ going to do?"

"Oh, I don't know," he shrugged, honestly having no plan but to keep a close eye on her. "I might have a whizz around with the vacuum cleaner."

Catherine laughed outright at that – and oh, how hearing that laugh again warmed his heart.

"_You_ with a vacuum cleaner?"

"Yes. Me with a vacuum cleaner."

"Do you even know which end to blow down?" she asked wickedly, her eyes twinkling in a way that he hadn't seen since she was very young; since she was soiled by awful experiences and sullied relationships. _This _was the daughter he had known and missed. And whilst he still loved the jaded, heartbroken young woman she was today, it was nice to see elements of his old daughter still lurking underneath.

Harry feigned outrage, "Contrary to popular opinion, I am actually capable of household chores."

"Sure, Dad," she smirked. "It's clear that you really did swap MI-5 for the wild side."

Harry shook his head in mock despair, though truth be told, he was actually rather enjoying this unexpected banter. So he couldn't help the disappointment that pooled in his belly as her impish smile faded not a moment later.

"Actually..." she began hesitantly. "I... I think I might have a better idea than vacuuming."

"Oh, yes?"

She bit her lip and started twisting her hands anxiously in her lap. It took Harry a second to adjust to his daughter's dramatic character shift, but he soon realised why she was so nervous. He watched her shimmy forward, dig down deep into her pocket and extract the small troublesome USB.

"I..." she swallowed. "I want you to take a look at what's on this."

Harry hesitated. He would be lying if he said he wasn't tempted. His inner spook was clamouring to know what exactly they were up against; what the Horsemen were planning and what intel they had gathered from these MI-5 moles. But at the same time, Catherine had already been through so much. She was already inextricably entwined in this business, and he didn't want her even more involved. Ignorance was bliss, and in dire situations, it could be a life saver. She knew the gist of what was on the device, but if she examined it in detail, she would be privy to information that would undoubtedly up the risk she was at. And he wanted to keep her safe.

But then he also knew that they couldn't just bury the device. It indubitably held intel that would give Five a fighting chance at stopping the Horsemen. They would have to get it to the Grid somehow, and if they couldn't do that physically, they might have to relay the information themselves. And to do that, he'd _have_ to look at it. And so once again, Harry Pearce found himself torn between family and country. He glanced uncertainly between the tiny, metal device and his heartbroken yet admirably defiant daughter. Catherine must have realised his indecision, because she quickly rose to her feet and pressed the USB into his lax palm.

"You have to look at it, Dad," she told him firmly, resolute and unafraid for the first time since her arrival. "You weren't the best dad – we both know that – but you were bloody good at what you did. You have to look at that thing, see where the uranium and plutonium is, and put a stop to it. And right now, you're the only person I think I can trust to do that."

Harry sighed. She was, of course, right. For sake of his (former) country, he had to be Harry Pearce, Section Head. Except after years of following Ruth's gentle guidance, he now felt sure he could fight from both sides: he could be a good father _and _a good spook. He'd do what was necessary for the British people, but he'd also do anything to keep his family safe.

"Alright," he nodded, a startling wave of calmness washing over him as his Section Head persona settled into place. It was like climbing back into a comfy old pair of pyjamas – frighteningly so, for he hadn't known the transition would be quite so easy. "I'll fetch the laptop. Let's take a look at what exactly these bastards are chasing you halfway around the world for."

* * *

To Kinkaid's surprise, he didn't end up following mother and child to a school, but to an impressive, white stone building in town, reading _Beechworth Public Library and Burke Museum _across the top. It was still early and he doubted whether the building had even opened properly for public use yet. He surmised that the woman must work there – or at least know someone who did. But that was okay. More than okay, actually. That was good. He didn't want the public around. People were just another hindrance to the mission. Getting the two females alone in an enclosed space was exactly what he needed.

Luckily for him, security was shockingly awful. As the pair entered through the open doors, without even so much as a key card, Kinkaid was able to slip in at a safe distance behind. He found a small alcove containing an ancient chestnut wardrobe, and stowed himself inside. From his hiding place, he watched as the woman and child approached two men. One was short and dumpy, and wearing a Museum lanyard around his podgy neck. The other was tall, youngish, well-groomed and dressed in an expensive, high-powered suit. Kinkaid experienced an instant surge of dislike towards the latter. He knew immediately what type of a man he was. He practically had 'Rich Fascist Capitalist' tattooed across his forehead; the kind of man who had never had cause to do any _real_ work and yet liked to involve himself in other people's business; sponging off their success to make money for himself. And that was precisely the kind of man that made his stomach roll.

He watched the Museum worker simper over the taller man for a moment, before quickly introducing the woman and then gesturing towards another part of the Museum. The four of them walked in that direction and disappeared out of view. Kinkaid slipped his firearm out from underneath his jacket, undid the safety, and followed.

* * *

**A short chapter by my standards, as I had to split this and the next chapter in half as it was getting too long. That means the next one is already written and I'll post fairly soon depending on demand. Please forgive any staggering inaccuracies regarding the Burke Museum. I've never been, and this is just what it looks like in my imagination!**

** I hope all of you are staying safe and well in these times of Lockdown. Much love x**


	10. Chapter 10: The Assassin

Kinkaid was starting to lose patience. He had been watching these three adults engage in an inane dialogue for the last twenty minutes, and was seriously considering just shooting the two men. The dumpy man's pandering was getting on his nerves, and the mere sight of the rich bloke's face was making his blood boil. The woman was a calmer, quieter, more bearable presence, though she was clearly listening and taking note of every word. She was so involved, in fact, that she didn't notice the little girl growing bored and fidgety by her side. As the minutes ticked by, the tiny brunette's shoulders slumped, and her attention strayed towards another wing of the museum – a room mostly concealed by a wooden panelled door. He watched her glance longingly at the door, and then at her mother. She repeated the motion, clearly torn between desire and obedience. Her gaze flitted once more towards the door before she bit her lip and backed away from the conversing adults.

'_Oh this is just too easy'_, he mused, watching the child slip unseen across the corridor. He scanned the area and realised that he could easily follow her into the room by taking another corridor – one running parallel to where the adults were standing. He did just that and found himself in what appeared to a reconstructed old street. Two rows of faux shopfronts overlooked a thin street littered with benches and historical artefacts. He glided carefully down the road and grinned as he spied the little brunette. She was sitting on a battered wooden bench, swinging her legs happily from side to side as she examined an ancient Jeweller's shop. She had her back to him and didn't seem to hear his approach until his boot caught the foot of an old lamppost. She whirled round, scrambled off the bench and backed away from him, eyes brimming with suspicion.

"Who are you?"

"Oh, no need to worry," he shrugged, keeping his voice as low and as casual as possible so that the adults outside wouldn't hear. "I'm just looking for someone."

"Who are you?" she repeated, undeterred.

Kinkaid quickly checked the doors to ensure she hadn't been heard. He decided, rather grudgingly, that he'd better answer her question before she went squealing to Mummy.

"My name's Ollie. What's yours?"

"Mummy says I shouldn't talk to strangers."

"Well, your Mummy's right. But I think she probably means 'bad' strangers. I'm not a 'bad' stranger. Like I said, I'm just looking for someone."

The girl eyed him dubiously, and he was quite disturbed to find a maturity in her gaze that transcended her young years. She pouted thoughtfully, as if trying to decide whether or not she should play along or rat him out. When he saw her eyes flicker towards the door, he knew exactly which way she was inclining. Plus he suspected that it wouldn't be long before the woman outside noticed her daughter's absence. He needed to hurry things along.

"What's that?" the tiny brunette suddenly asked.

"What's what?"

"That, in your hand," she frowned, pointing towards his poorly obscured revolver.

For a split second, Kinkaid was tempted to just shoot her and make a break for it. This wasn't the conversation he had envisioned having. He thought questioning a child would be easy. This particular child, however, was rather more precocious than your average infant. Then, to his shock and disgust, he realised that he couldn't. He could shoot rotten English pigs. He could shoot hindering airport officials. He could shoot Karim. He could even shoot Catherine. But he didn't have it in him to shoot this tiny blue-eyed girl. Shooting her wasn't part of the mission.

"It's nothing," he murmured, flashing a sickly sweet smile as he shoved it back inside his jacket. "I was hoping you could help me..."

He retrieved the now battered photo of Catherine and held it out for her to see.

"I'm looking for this woman," he studied the her face closely as her eyes cast over the photo. "Have you seen her?"

The child had one hell of a poker face. Her expression barely changed. She simply stared at the photo, then back up at him, "Who is she?"

Kinkaid sucked in a deep breath, fighting to quell his rising temper. He gritted his teeth, kept up the sickly sweet smile and answered as pleasantly as he could:

"_She_ is a very naughty girl. She's a thief. Do you know what a thief is?"

She nodded.

"Well, she's stolen something that's very important and very, very dangerous. And that makes _her_ very dangerous."

The girl frowned so minutely that had he not been looking for it, he undoubtedly would have missed it. But he _had_ been looking for it, and he _hadn't _missed it. A swell of triumph surged through his innards and he closed the gap between them.

"Now then... a little birdy told me that you and your Mummy were talking to this woman on the beach not so long ago. Is that true?"

The child gulped and began fiddling with the hem of her dress.

"I said, is that _true_?" Kinkaid demanded, more forcefully than before.

The girl's breathing hitched and he experienced a sick sense of glee that he had frightened her so. He was starting to lose patience with these nicey-nicey tactics and he revelled in the fear he could incite in this precocious brat.

"Y-Yes," she stammered.

"Is she staying with you at the Caravan Park?"

"What Caravan Park?"

He growled under his breath, "Don't play games with me, please, child. I don't like games. I know all about you and where you live. And I know that you were seen going off with this woman. And if she _is _with you at the Caravan Park... just remember that she's very dangerous. And I wouldn't want you or your Mummy to get hurt."

The girl's ocean blue eyes widened a fraction, and her gaze flitted desperately towards the door. She was clearly itching to cry out for her mother. Yet at the same time, she seemed glued to the spot; frozen still with shock and fear.

"So I'll ask again," he said slowly, stooping so that his eyes were level with the child's. "Is this woman staying with you at the Caravan Park?"

The girl glanced at the photo, then at him, before swallowing and shaking her head.

"No."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Uh-huh."

His eyes narrowed as he tried to get a handle on whether the brat was telling the truth. Her face was white and stricken and she was looking him with an unwaveringly frightened gaze... and yet for some reason, he felt like there was something missing; like he couldn't fully read her.

"You wouldn't lie to me now, would you?"

"No," the child replied in a plaintive little voice.

"You're sure about that?"

"Uh-huh."

His nostrils flared and he decided he had no option but to trust her for now. He could withdraw the revolver and shove the barrel against her head, but then she might panic. She might scream for Mummy and he had absolutely no idea what security measures the museum had in place. He was confident that he was a better shot than any security guard, but at the same time, the more he recklessly left a trail of bodies, the more chance he had of being caught – and how would he catch up with Catherine if he was languishing inside a prison cell? So he knelt back on his haunches, examined the child's face one more time, before nodding.

"Alright. So what did your Mummy and this woman talk about?"

The child blinked at him for a moment, before stuttering, "She was crying. She was upset about something... like... _really _upset. So Mummy and I took her for ice cream."

Kinkaid remained stony-faced. Three guesses what Catherine had been crying about.

"Aw, that was nice of you," he crooned, and even though he was aiming for sweet, his tone sounded faintly chilling even to his own ears. "Did she say why she was upset?"

"She wouldn't tell us."

Kinkaid nodded, thankful for that at least, "So what happened?"

"She got angry when Mummy offered to let her stay at the Caravan Park. She said she didn't need our charity. And then she ran off."

He had to admit. That definitely sounded like Catherine: passionate yet emotionally distant, infuriatingly proud and fiercely, fiercely independent.

"Where did she run off to?"

"I don't know."

Kinkaid narrowed his eyes, trying to discern once more whether the girl was telling the truth. If she was, then that meant the trail had ended here in some sleepy Australian town. Perhaps it had just been a pit stop for Catherine; a break from all the travelling. Perhaps she had already turned tail and hopped on another bus to Sydney. Damn it, why did this woman have to make everything so difficult?!

He was about to press the child for more details when shouting broke out from the other room; pained, frantic cries that could only possibly emanate from a distressed mother in search of her lost child.

"Lottie?! Lottie, where are you?! LOTTIE?!"

He detected the panic; the sheer terror in the woman's tone, and for a small second, he was sorely tempted to take the child and run. Having leverage might prove rather useful. But rationally, he knew this would be bad idea. Having a child in tow, especially this precocious little brat, would slow him down no end.

Plus, the child's words seemed pretty in-keeping with Catherine's personality. He could completely believe that his girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?) had flown off the handle at the offer of help. When she got herself into a state, she was virtually inconsolable and usually preferred to be left alone rather than speak them aloud. Karim had frequently teased him about having such a highly-strung woman sharing his bed; asked whether it was worth all the hassle for a little sex on the side. But Catherine's fire had been exactly what made the sex so great.

He shook himself. These thoughts really weren't helping right now. He needed to make a swift exit. And so, without another word, he launched himself to his feet and hot-footed it out of the room. As he left via the abandoned corridor from whence he came, he heard the little girl – Lottie – shouting for her mother.

'_You got lucky today, lady'_, he thought, as footsteps came charging into the reconstruction room. '_But if I find out your little brat crossed me, you won't be so lucky in the future'._

* * *

"Lottie?! Lottie, where are you?! LOTTIE?!" Ruth screamed.

How could she have been so _stupid_? How could she have been so utterly, _utterly _stupid?! She should have held tight to Lottie's hand. She shouldn't have let herself get so invested in the conversation. Lottie was an intelligent, obedient girl, but she was also just that – a _little girl_. She didn't have the patience or the stamina to put up with long, boring adult conversations. And now she had clearly grown bored and wandered off. At any time, that would have frightened Ruth. But now... now she was absolutely petrified. Oh God, where was she?! _Please no. Please, please, no. Not her. Please don't let anything have happened to her!_

"LOTTIE?!"

She careered from one room to the next, searching frantically for her baby, whilst Roger Benson, the benefactor, and her boss, Lewis, simply looked on in bewilderment. She was trembling something fierce. With each second that Lottie went unfound, her breathing became more and more ragged. And her heart... oh, her heart. On the one hand, it felt like it had shattered into a million irreparable shards, but on the other, she could feel it galloping a hundred miles a minute inside the hollow cavity of chest. So much so, she had to physically clamp her hand to her heart as she screamed out another frenetic:

"LOTTIE?!"

And then it came. The blessed sound of an angel.

"Mummy?!"

Ruth spun around and realised that her baby's voice was echoing from the Reconstruction Room. Of course. Of course it was. A thin sheen of tears glistened in her eyes as she fled immediately down the corridor. And there, standing by a battered old bench, was Lottie.

"Oh my..."

She didn't even complete her sentence, wasting no time in flying to her daughter's side and scooping her up in her arms.

"Mummy?"

The girl sounded faintly unnerved, but Ruth couldn't even bring herself to respond. She buried her nose in her baby's hair and breathed in the sweet scent of her coconut shampoo. Her shuddery breaths caused wisps of dark hair to flutter lightly against her eyelids, and she felt more than a couple of tears land in the fine hairs behind Lottie's ear.

It took a good while, but she gradually came back to herself. She took a deep, solidifying breath, lowered her daughter to the floor and that's when the anger hit. Deep-seated, panic-filled anger that presented itself in the form of a furious diatribe.

"What were you thinking?!" she scolded. "How many times have I told you not to run off by yourself?"

"Mummy – "

"You promised me you'd stay where I could see you!"

"But Mummy – "

"No 'buts', Lottie. I'm very cross. You had me so worried, you silly, silly girl!"

And without warning, Lottie promptly burst into tears. It took a second for Ruth recover from the shock of this and when she did, she stopped ranting immediately. She could only watch in horror as her baby began to sob helplessly into her hands. Ruth's racing heart splintered and she instantly regretted being so harsh. Lottie had only been behaving like the six-year-old she was. And so, feeling like the worst mother in the world, she fell to her knees and softly cupped her daughter's sodden cheeks.

"I'm sorry. Mummy's sorry, darling. I shouldn't have shouted like that."

Lottie continued to weep, scrubbing at her eyes with her tiny fists. Ruth gently lowered them to her sides, not wanting her to make her eyes sore. Then she wiped away her tears and drew her tightly against her bosom, rocking her from side to side, just as she had done when Lottie was a baby.

Her stomach clenched as she realised that this was probably the first time Lottie had openly cried after being told off. Her face would usually fall, and she'd become quiet and pensive, but she would always bounce back quickly. But now... now, Lottie was showing no signs of bouncing back. In fact, the tears were falling faster and harder than ever, and the girl's miniature frame was practically thrumming beneath Ruth's fingers. The overwhelming hand of dread rose up and clasped at Ruth's heart as a chilling thought struck her. Maybe... maybe this breakdown wasn't due to being told off. Maybe it was because of something else. Something far, far sinister that Ruth didn't even want to think about.

"Alright, darling, alright," she hushed, trying to calm her baby in spite of her own racing tempo. "It's alright."

"M-M-Mummy... M-Mummy," the little girl sobbed, her stagnant breathing barely allowing her time to breathe, let alone speak.

"Shhh, my darling," Ruth continued to croon, praying to God that her fears were unfounded. "You're alright. Mummy's got you. It's alright."

"M-M-Mummy, there was a m-man."

_No. Oh, God no._ Ruth's stomach plummeted to the floor.

"What man?" she croaked. "Where?"

Her eyes darted round the room, as if waiting for someone to come leaping out of the shadows. Thankfully, no one did.

"He's just gone. He was a big man. He s-said his name was Ollie. He had a photo of Catherine."

Ruth had to work very hard not to tremble herself now. Instead she concentrated on Lottie; on familiarising herself with the feel of her baby under her fingertips – her tiny stick-like arms, her beautiful chubby cheeks, her dear little face – all the things that she had just unwittingly come so close to losing.

"Did he do anything to you, darling?" she demanded urgently. "Did he hurt you?"

"No, b-but he was scary. He said Catherine's stolen something. He said that she's dangerous. _Is_ she dangerous, Mummy?"

"No, she's not. I need you to think for me, Lottie, alright? Just think very carefully," Ruth murmured, fighting to keep the panic out of her voice. "What did you tell this man about Catherine?"

The little girl bit her lip and she swallowed anxiously, "I... I lied."

"What do you mean 'you lied'?"

"He... he wanted to know where Catherine was. He said that he knew we lived at the Caravan Park and that we'd been speaking to her."

Ruth was practically panting from the sheer level of emotional restraint she was exercising. Her heart longed for the catharsis of a good cry. But she couldn't break. Not now. Not yet. Lottie was visibly shaken. The last thing she needed was her mother falling to pieces. So even though her face was ashen with terror, even though her worst nightmare was unfolding right before her very eyes, Ruth dug down deep and armoured herself with those reserves of strength she had had to keep endlessly on hand whilst working on the Grid. Because that's who she needed to be right now: Ruth Evershed, analyst. Because if she allowed herself to dwell on this any further at a personal level, she knew she would surely crumble.

"I lied, Mummy. He scared me and I don't know why but I lied. I said I didn't know where Catherine was. I said she got angry and ran off when you asked her questions."

On the one hand, Ruth was surprised by the little girl's cunning. Lottie had always been an honest child. It was a core value that Harry and Ruth had tried to instil, in spite of their supremely secretive past. Yet it was clear that Lottie had also inherited the gut instincts of two spooks. When confronted by Ollie Kinkaid, those dormant spook instincts had risen to the forefront and most likely saved both hers and Catherine's lives. Ruth was convinced that had Lottie given a different answer, Kinkaid might have taken her hostage in order to get to Catherine. Oh, but she had a clever, _clever_ daughter!

"It's okay, darling," she assured her, pressing a large kiss into her hair. "You did the right thing. I'm proud of you."

"But I _lied_," Lottie frowned.

The tears had waned now; the initial shock of the situation having worn off. Now, she just seemed confused and more than a little frightened.

"For today, that's alright. You did the right thing."

"But why? And why was he looking for Catherine? What's she stolen? Is he the police?"

"He's not the police, no."

"But you weren't here. How do you know?"

"Because... " Ruth stuttered, closing her eyes briefly in a bid to calm herself. "Because I know."

"But _how_? Mummy, I don't _understand._"

Ruth's heart broke as she heard the underlying frustration in the girl's mournful voice. Lottie had endured days of secrets, heightened emotions, and earth-shattering discoveries, and she had coped remarkably well. Yet this had been the final straw. She had just potentially stared death in the face (though she probably didn't know this) and she was desperate for answers. The not-knowing and the constant secrets were probably worse than any explanation her parents could throw at her. Ruth knew that once this particular crisis had been averted – _if _it could be averted – her little girl wouldn't settle for any more half-baked excuses. She and Harry would have to sit down and work out how to explain everything. They couldn't hide anymore.

But first... first she had to get to Harry and Catherine. Lottie seemed have thrown this man off the scent. But how long would it take for him to realise he had been played? How long would it take for him to return in search of revenge? Ruth was damned if she was ever going to let him go near her daughter again. She was so very fortunate that her stupid, stupid mistake hadn't cost her Lottie's life. It was an error that she knew was going to haunt her for the rest of her days, and perhaps she would allow herself to cry about it later. Perhaps not. But for now, the thought of Harry was beckoning her home like a single light in a world of endless black. Maybe once she saw Harry; felt the shelter of his strong arms around her, warming her, grounding her, keeping her safe, she would be able to breathe again.

"We're going home, Lottie," she announced, brushing the pads of her thumbs once more across her baby's cheeks before grasping her hand.

"But what about school?"

"No school. Not today. We have to get home."

"But – "

"We need to see Daddy and Catherine. Now."

* * *

"Shit," Harry whispered, skimming through the details of the USB. He hadn't thought things could get much worse. Oh boy, had he been wrong.

From over his shoulder, Catherine peered down at the laptop screen and frowned, "What? What is it?"

Harry neglected to reply. The way he saw it, the less she knew, the better. Catherine, on the other hand, had no patience with being wrapped in cotton wool. She elbowed him hard in the ribs, inciting a small, pained grunt from Harry.

"Tell me, Dad. What's wrong?"

He tutted, still reluctant to divulge, but the challenging glare being turned onto him had him caving in a matter of seconds, "This group – the Horsemen. No more are they a small-time, crackpot group. This intel... it's catastrophic stuff. The army, the highest echelons of corrupt governments, hell, even major powers like Russia and China would relinquish their right arm for this sort of information. This isn't just a small amount of uranium and plutonium – it's vast quantities. How the hell your boyfriend's mate got wind of it, I have no idea. You'd need a source pretty high up in Five to know the whereabouts of this sort of weapons-grade material."

Catherine blanched white, "Why? How much is there?"

"Enough to give anyone who got their hands on it the sort of power that no-one should ever be allowed to have. Enough to make hundreds of dirty bombs _and_ more."

"How _much_?"

"The uranium isn't just uranium. It's enriched... uranium 235, and in the wrong hands, it can be lethal. You need about 50kg to make a bomb. If this intel is correct, it's pinpointing spots that contain tens of thousands of kilograms of enriched uranium, _plus_ deadly proportions of plutonium."

He closed the documents, wiped his file history clean and removed the USB, twirling the seemingly insignificant object through his fingers.

"This group can't aren't just planning to incite chaos. They have the power to trigger an international incident. They could cause hundreds of thousands of deaths, and even have the potential to start a full-blown war between Syria and the UK."

"But that's sick! Why would anyone do that?!"

Harry clicked his tongue but refrained from making a more embittered response, "I've never claimed to understand the minds of terrorists. Here."

He held out the USB for her to take, but she shook her head and recoiled from the device as if it held the power to burn her.

"I don't want it. I want nothing more to do with that thing. It's safer in your hands, anyway."

They both knew it was a bit of a cop-out; a transference of the burden from herself to her father. But then, Harry couldn't exactly blame her. It was a burden she should never have had to bear in the first place. And technically speaking, this was what he was trained to deal with. So he simply nodded and slotted the cold metal device into his pocket for safekeeping.

"What happens now?" Catherine asked, chewing her lip anxiously.

But Harry didn't have a chance to answer. Not a second later, there was an audible jingle of keys in the lock, followed by two pairs pattering along the hallway. Ruth and Lottie soon appeared, both looking slightly breathless and rather unkempt, and both looking utterly, utterly petrified. Harry was up from the sofa in a flash.

"What's wrong?" he asked, crossing to his family and sticking out an inane hand. He didn't touch them; just let it hover someway between them, as if the simple act of closeness was enough to detect any harm that might have been dealt towards them. "What's happened?"

All of a sudden, Lottie launched herself against him, sobbing nonsensically into his waistband. Trying to ignore the prickles of fear that were rippling up his spine, Harry instinctively lifted his daughter into his arms, swaying her gently from side to side in a bid to hush her crying.

"Hey, Squirt, hey," he crooned. "It's alright. Whatever it is, it'll be alright."

He had never seen Lottie like this. Never. Lottie was instinctively bright and bubbly; his and Ruth's little ray of sunshine amidst a once-constant tide of despair. Whatever had happened had obviously been serious. Each weighty sob jabbed like a needle against his battered heart and he gulped, at a loss as to what to do. His eyes sought Ruth's, only to find a world of terror in those ocean orbs. A terror that chilled him to the core. She just stood there, frozen; eyes round, unblinking and glistening with unshed tears.

"What's _happened_?" he demanded urgently.

The force in his tone and the startling similarity to how he used to drive the very best from his officers on the Grid seemed to finally get through to Ruth, who shook herself slightly, as if waking from a vivid nightmare. She caught a glimpse of Catherine who was half-sitting, half-standing behind Harry, concern – genuine concern – written across her face. Then, with what Harry suspected to be a monumental effort, Ruth tamped back her tears, drew herself up a little taller and took a deep, solidifying breath.

"Ollie Kinkaid," To her credit, her voice was only slightly unsteady as she spoke. "Ollie Kinkaid was at the museum. He saw Catherine talking to us the other day. He knows where we live, what we do. He wanted to know where she was."

Harry's heart erupted with a silent roar of rage and he immediately bridged the gap between them, needing to be close to her. She was chalk white and clearly still in shock. He himself was having a hard time dealing with the numerous scenarios inundating his mind; all the things this madman might have done to his family while he hadn't been there to protect them. Each one was worse than the last.

"Did he hurt you?" Harry demanded, his voice shaking with barely-controlled fury. "Did he hurt either of you, in any way?"

"No. No, I don't think so," Ruth murmured vaguely, her voice faint and distant, as if she was only half there.

"What do you mean, 'you don't think so'?"

"I... I... " Ruth stammered, tears flooding back into her diamond-bright eyes, and she pressed an unconscious hand to her mouth in a bid to steady herself. He saw the imperceptible flicker of her gaze towards Catherine and knew that she was only just holding herself together for the sake of his daughters. "I didn't speak to him. Lottie ran off – just for a moment. I was stupid. I was so unbelievably stupid and I didn't see her run off. The next thing I know, she's not there by my side. And... and she was okay. I found her. But... but _he_ had been speaking to her. He'd tracked us down and he'd..." she trailed off, unable to continue anymore.

"I'm sorry, Mummy. Sorry, Daddy," Lottie wept, burying her face in Harry's neck. "I'm sorry."

Harry tried not to stare aghast at Ruth, for he knew that his horror would do nothing to ease the guilt that was already running rampant in her pain-filled eyes. He didn't blame her for what had happened. Of course he didn't. He knew that Lottie, for all her sweet innocence, could be impetuous and single-track-minded. She had had her eye on that bloody Reconstruction Room from the instant Ruth told her she was taking her to work. He'd bet his finest bottle of Talisker that that was where Lottie had run off to. And that was probably where this bastard, Kinkaid, had cornered her. So then, no wonder both of his girls were in such a state. He shook his head and silently tried to communicate to Ruth that it wasn't her fault. But she was having none of it. She wasn't looking at him. She only had eyes for their tiny daughter, sobbing her heart out on her daddy's shoulder.

"Squirt," Harry murmured bleakly, pulling her back until he could see her tear-soaked face. "Squirt, we're not angry. Mummy and I aren't angry. I just need to know a couple of things. Did this man hurt you?"

Lottie sucked in a great big sniff, but shook her head in the negative. Harry heaved a sigh of relief. Thank goodness for small mercies.

"And what did you tell him about Catherine?"

Catherine stood now, her expression loaded with anxious trepidation.

"N-Nothing. I s-s-said nothing. I lied. I said that she got angry at us and ran off."

Harry practically gave a sob of relief, pressing a big fat kiss to the bewildered child's cheek.

"Good girl," he whispered.

One day when things weren't quite so messed up, he'd have to have a talk with her about why exactly she had responded in such a way – and why, despite all their warnings, she felt it okay to talk to a stranger. But for now, he was just thankful that Lottie seemed to have inherited her parents' spook instincts.

"He probably won't have gone far," Ruth reasoned. "He could come back at any moment looking for more information. And when he does..."

"He'll find me," Catherine finished hoarsely, every atom of her being beginning to shake.

Ruth bit her lip and nodded, "Yes. And if he does, he'll realise that he's been lied to. And he won't take kindly to that. Plus Lottie told me he had a gun."

Harry blinked. How did little Lottie even know what a gun looked like? His mind drifted to the handgun he kept concealed in the back of his and Ruth's underwear drawer. _Oh God._ _Please don't let her have found that. _

"It looked like the BB gun Jamie's brother has," Lottie mumbled into Harry's shoulder, as if having read his mind.

They fell into a short, uneasy silence, all parties trying to decide how best to respond.

"That's it then," Catherine mumbled into the quiet. "He's found me. It's over."

"No," Harry said sharply, whirling round the face her with an air of the hardened Section Head he had once been. "Nothing's over. We don't give up."

"But – "

"No buts. We'll find a way out of this. We will."

"How, Dad? They sent a hitman – my own _boyfriend_ – after me! And he's found me. We're not soldiers. We can't fight our way out of this."

"The three of you could hide in the basement. I could wait here. Face him."

He was immediately overruled by Ruth, who stepped forward and placed a firm hand on his bicep, "No, I won't let you do that."  
"I won't let any harm come to you," Harry argued fiercely.

The stubbornness that always touched and frustrated him in equal measure intercepted Ruth's formerly shaky demeanour. All trace of her fear drained away as she stared back at him with heart-stopping defiance, "And I won't let any harm come to you, Harry. I meant what I said last night. What we do, we do together. And no good will come of you playing John Wayne."

"I don't see what other choice we have."

"Yes you do. We both do. And I think we've both known what we'd have to do from the moment we found out about the Horsemen."

Harry swallowed, unable to tear his eyes away from her unwavering gaze. He could see his own emotions reflected in her face: fear, reservation, anger, hurt, but most of all, a steely resolve; a quiet acceptance of their fate. She was right. It had been a truth they had been denying themselves for over twenty-four hours and yet it had been obvious which path they would ultimately have to take. Unintentional though it had been, Catherine, like a harbinger of doom, had brought upon them a world of trouble that there was no hiding from. Their wonderful little haven had been tainted, destroyed. Now that Kinkaid knew where they lived, it wouldn't take more than an hour for one of his cronies with half a brain cell and a laptop to realise the link between him and Catherine. They were all in danger. It would be reckless to stay. Plus he needed to get the USB to the Grid as soon as possible, and he wasn't sure which channels of communication were compromised; who the MI-5 moles were. What was the old adage? If you wanted something doing right, do it yourself.

He sighed, balancing Lottie on his hip with one arm and capturing Ruth's hand with the other. This was it: the moment they had been trying to keep at bay. Henry and Rebecca Knight had to fade away into the sunset, and Harry Pearce and Ruth Evershed had to be reborn. It was time to go home.

* * *

**Apologies for the delay. I've been becoming a little disenfranchised as a writer but I've been slowly forcing myself on with the story. Thank you wolfdrum and Gregoriana for your constant support and thank you to the anonymous guest who reviewed the last chapter. Take care and stay safe x**


	11. Chapter 11: The Way Home

Beechworth Caravan Park had been closed for the foreseeable future; the guests sent packing amidst many arduous complaints and refund demands. Refunds had been issued and complaints taken on the nose, because what else was there to do? It was a small price to pay to secure everyone's safety. Harry and Ruth's beautiful little cottage had been shut up, with most of their possessions left to gather dust.

Despite the compulsion to get out quickly, there had been surprisingly little panic involved. Harry and Ruth had calmly divvied up the tasks and done what needed to be done. Ruth had resigned from the museum, and Harry had closed up the Park. She had packed up their belongings, while Harry had thrown out the perishables. Their emergency plan had been in place ever since they moved in. They'd just hoped to never have to use it.

Lottie had been horrified to be told that she could only fill up one tiny suitcase, forcing her to abandon a lot of her precious books and stuffed animals. She hadn't understood the sudden chaos as her parents hurried to move out. She hadn't understood why she couldn't just go to school, why she couldn't say goodbye to Jamie or Alfie or any of her friends, why _any _of this was happening. Entirely overwhelmed, she had spent the majority of the taxi ride to the airport blinking back tears. Ruth had gently promised that she and Harry would explain everything soon, but told her that the time for explanations was not now. For now, they just had to concentrate on leaving Beechworth. Today. Immediately.

And so now, here they were sitting at the gate bound for home, and oh boy, was Melbourne Airport a surreal sight after so many years. The last time they had been here, they'd just flown in from Marseille after a close encounter with some field officers from Six. They'd been lost and frightened and spurred on only by the thought of putting as much distance between themselves and the unfriendlies as possible. Like Catherine, they'd taken the shuttle bus and ended up in Beechworth. The rest, as they say, was history.

Except it wasn't history. Not now. Not really. In fact, it was a horrific feeling of history _repeating _itself. Their happy five years in Beechworth had come to a calamitous conclusion, and here they were again, on the run and frightened for their lives. It was enough to make them question whether they were ever truly destined for happiness. Fate was unkind... unscrupulous... _cruel _even, to have teased them with the sweet taste of the life that could've been, only to so mercilessly snatch it away.

Harry glanced across at Ruth, who was sitting opposite him. Lottie was nestled in her lap, one hand clutching Moo and the other fisting Ruth's coat as she rocked her gently from side to side. He wasn't quite sure whether this motion was to comfort her daughter or herself. Perhaps a bit of both, he decided.

Ruth had said very little since leaving Beechworth. Her eyebrows had knitted together into a steady frown, but aside from that, her face was blank, closed-off, distant and unreadable. And that frightened him. It frightened him more than he could say. Over the last six years, his beautiful partner had learnt to ignore her skittish instincts and let him in, even in the face of adversity. And now, seeing her retreat back inside herself broke his heart. He could only hope that the loss of their life in Beechworth wouldn't strip Ruth of all the confidence she had regained. Because the Ruth who had shared his heart and his bed for the last five years had been everything he could have ever wished for and more. She was passionate and loving, witty and quirky, sassy and smart, radiant and resplendent and utterly, _utterly alive_. She had found her old self and matured into the glorious mother she was today. She still had her wobbly moments, was still inflicted by the occasional nightmare, but they occurred in private and no one outside of Harry would ever suspect all that she had endured.

He could only pray that returning to England wouldn't trigger a regression into the poor, haunted soul who left; who had suffered at the hands of rapists and kidnappers and power-hungry terrorists; who had been teetering on the edge of a breakdown and who had only just managed to step back from the brink because of the abundance of love Harry had been able to show her during their time away. And oh, but how Harry loved her. He loved her unconditionally, whoever she was, _however_ she was, forever and always. He'd love her even if she _did _spiral back into depression. But he also wanted her to be happy – and he had never seen her as happy as she had been in the last five years. He could stroke his ego and claim that that was partially down to him– and Lottie, of course – and perhaps some of it was. But he also knew that a big part of it was the change of scene, the change of climate, the _escape_. Beechworth was a world away from London, from MI-5, and that in itself had made her feel safe. Just as Cyprus had probably made her feel safe. And now, for the second time in nearly a decade, that illusion of safety had been shattered, and she was having to flee back to the place that had always seemed to cause her so much pain. That heartbreaking thought was just one more bullet point on a long list of reasons for Harry to want to kill Ollie Kinkaid.

Another was the current state of his eldest child. Catherine sat beside him, her hands twisting, her knee jiggling, her eyes wide and fearful. Her whole body was thrumming with trepidation as they waited for their flight to be called. They had been lucky to acquire seats so last minute, but then he supposed they were due at least _some _luck. By a happy coincidence there had been four seats left on an otherwise booked-up flight, and they had snatched them up, irrespective of the expense. It had been an opportunity they couldn't afford to pass up.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a porter suddenly rattled past with a baggage trolley. Catherine squeaked in surprise and rocketed up from her seat. A few passer-bys turned to stare, and Harry flashed them his best convincing smile before gently tugging her back down and placing his hand atop of hers.

"It's alright," he soothed, and she nodded even though they both knew that it wasn't.

He himself was jumpier than usual; casting eagle eyes around the space every other minute to check for potential threats. It had been so tempting to bring along the handgun that still resided in his and Ruth's underwear drawer. But he knew that he wouldn't stand a chance of getting it through security and he didn't wish for any hold-ups. He had no idea how this Kinkaid character had managed to smuggle a gun into the country, but he rather suspected Catherine's boyfriend was the reason for the airport's heightened security. Screens and notices everywhere were reporting the shootings of several airport employees a few nights prior, and there appeared to be double the personnel on each gate and help desk. A policeman or two were even carrying out checks at entrance.

His stomach suddenly lurched and for a horribly brief moment, he thought he might be sick. The manic security reinforced just how dangerous Olli Kinkaid really was, just how close he, Harry, had come to losing the people he loved earlier that morning. Had Lottie responded differently to Kinkaid's questions, and had Ruth not noticed Lottie's absence when she did, things might have ended very badly indeed. His gaze fell on his girls as they sat huddled together, and for the fifth time that hour he was filled with the overwhelming urge to fold them in his arms and never let go. But he couldn't. Catherine was shaking like a leaf beside him and he couldn't abandon her. So he kept a tight grip on her hand; all the while silently willing Ruth to look up at him.

A slight crackle over the tannoy interrupted his maudlin thoughts:

"Flight 217 is now boarding at Gate 5."

That was their flight. And Ruth _did_ look him then. All three females did. They looked towards him, the patriarch, the leader, the fearless knight standing on the wall, waiting for guidance; for reassurance that, yes, they were really going to go through with this. Harry stole one last glance at their surroundings before taking a deep breath and standing.

"Come on, then. Let's go."

* * *

Dimitri absently twisted the thin silver band around his ring finger as he skimmed through the intel on Alfurasan Alarbe. The morning briefing had seen his analysts bring him a slim volume which contained next to no valuable information – and certainly nothing concrete they could use to bring the organisation to its knees. Calum had explained that they'd intercepted zero chatter on the Horsemen since their name cropped up seven years ago. The group had clearly gone underground; become clever... sneaky. And Dimitri hated sneaky. He bloody hated it.

He sighed, peering out at the fresh-faced analysts working diligently at their computers. He felt a little guilty for the sudden embittered thought that took flight in his mind. Ruth Evershed would never have presented such meagre pickings during a briefing. She would've already hacked into some database somewhere and found out the front-runners of the group. Then he stopped and considered the irony of that thought.

Ruth Evershed. Mama Bear. A ghost from the past, a friend, a mentor, a gentle yet guarded presence, who had been dealt such a brutal hand during her time at MI-5. And what an astounding coincidence that it was she (and her beloved Harry Pearce) who had brought the Horsemen to their attention in the first place. He still couldn't wrap his head around it. They had made contact, after so many years of silence. Ruth Evershed and Harry Pearce, who had disappeared into the clouds on a grim, grey April's day almost exactly six years ago. Ruth Evershed and Harry Pearce, who he never thought he'd hear from ever again. Ruth Evershed and Harry Pearce whose reign on the Grid seemed like yesterday, and yet also a lifetime ago. So much had happened since then. So much had changed.

His dull eyes caught sight of his wedding band and he immediately stopped fiddling. Sorrow swooped through his stomach and tore once more at his ravaged heart. When he had waved goodbye to Harry and Ruth, his relationship with Erin had been just starting out. Despite all the crap incited by Levrov's plot, life had been promising. Erin had been so beautiful, so vivid, so full of life. She had adopted the role of Section Head (the second time around) with gumption, morality and class, and he still swore that she had been far better at the job than he. If it hadn't been for the stupid Incident, she'd still be here, sitting in this chair, this office; sharing his bed, his world, his life. But now... now everything had gone to shit, and he rather felt as if he was moving blindly from one day to the next – existing but not really, truly living. Was this how Harry and Ruth had felt towards the end of their time at Five? Was this why exile had seemed such an attractive option? He could only hope the last six years had been kinder to them than they had been to him.

A brief knock shook him from his morose reflections and he turned to find Calum hovering uncertainly in the doorway. The younger man's eyes were brimming with awkward concern. The old Calum would never have bothered with sentiment, but then he supposed neither of them were much like their former selves anymore.

"Yeah?"

"I er... just wanted to see if you were... well... _how_ you were doing because... you know..."

"Sweet, Calum, but I didn't think tea and sympathy was your style," Dimitri muttered, feeling only a little guilty when the officer winced in response.

"Oh, you know... it's not. I just..." he cleared his throated awkwardly. "I know this is probably a bit of a shock. For both of us, really. We didn't think we'd ever hear from them again and yet here they are embroiled in yet another hot mess. Déjà vu or what? Trouble just seems to follow them around."

"Trouble seems to follow us all around," Dimitri pointed out bitterly. "It's par for the course in this job."

Calum hummed non-committally and picked at the hem of his suit, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

A heavy silence settled between them, one man not quite knowing what to say and the other refraining from saying something he knew he'd probably regret. Calum continued to dither in the doorway, his eyes flicking between Dimitri and the corridor, as if debating whether or not to make a tactical retreat. Dimitri's patience finally wore thin and he slammed the file down onto the desk, turning to face his officer with a raised, expectant eyebrow.

"Was there something else or were you planning on becoming a regular fixture?"

Calum blinked. Sarcasm wasn't usually Dimitri's forte, and for a moment the younger man looked rather tempted to bite back with an equally acerbic reply. But then he shook his head and managed to reel himself back in.

"Er... no. No. Well, yes actually. I just... I know the last time we spoke to Harry and Ruth, you and Erin were... And Erin was still..." Each rambling sentence tapered off into bland oblivion, lame and unfinished, as if Calum couldn't quite summon the courage to follow them through. For some reason, this only angered Dimitri, and he found himself longing to silence the man with a punch to the face. Every mention of Erin was like a dagger to the heart: a reminder of who she had been, what they had had, what had happened that awful day, and what Calum had done (or rather not done). "I... I know that it must be hard – "

"With all due respect, Calum, you know _nothing_ about how hard it must be," Dimitri ground out.

Calum quietened immediately at that. He clamped his mouth tight shut and gulped, staring back at him with wide, guilt-laden eyes. Again, Dimitri was filled with the irrepressible urge to clock him one. The only thing that stopped him was that he knew he couldn't be seen slugging his officers in public. So, exercising what he considered to be admirable restraint, he just tamped down his rage, curled his hands into fists and turned his back on Calum.

"You know nothing," he repeated coldly. "So just stop prodding around wounds that've already been closed."

There was a beat, and then Calum said stoutly, "But they haven't closed, have they? Far from it. You wonder around like a bear with a sore head all day. You drink excessively. You treat me like a leper. You treat your team like a bunch of incompetent teenagers. You never even _try_ to see Rosie anymore."

Dimitri whirled around, "Don't. Don't you mention Rosie! Don't you dare!"

"I do dare. I'm the only one that does. I'm the only person in this entire building that's not prepared to tread on eggshells when they're around you. Everyone else is so bloody frightened of losing their jobs."

"I could decommission you!" Dimitri threatened wildly, though they both knew a personal entanglement wasn't viable grounds to do so.

"Do it," Calum shrugged. "I don't care. Hell, you think I _like_ being called 'Grandpa' every day? You think I like watching the light leave the eyes of kids who should never have been out in the field in the first place? You think I _enjoy _this crap?!"

"Well, if you're so unhappy, why don't you just leave?!" Dimitri snapped.

"For the same reason _you_ don't!" Calum shouted back. "Because this job's an addiction! We keeping coming back, time and time again, telling ourselves that we can save one more life, prevent one more crisis, stop one more bastard terrorist. And all the while we're reminding ourselves how much we hate this job, how jaded we are, we're actually hiding that deep, dark, terrifying truth that actually... actually, we don't want it to end. Because if it ends, = we'd notice just how empty our lives actually are. We'd remember everything we've had to sacrifice. And what sort of a life would we lead without Five? Gardening? DIY? Tea parties with the neighbours? A cushy office job? Everything would seem so fucking mundane!"

Calum finished his passionate diatribe, panting and emotionally spent. Dimitri stared back at him, astonished. Calum wasn't the most passionate man in the world, or the most articulate. He liked to poke fun and act the cocky office boy (even at thirty-seven). He still maintained the breezy 'don't-even-worry-about-it' attitude, still had a bizarre obsession with gobstoppers and still had an overzealous love for all things tech. At one moment he could be the world's greatest man-child, and within the space of a minute he could switch to the seasoned spook he now undoubtedly was. It was at times like these – like now – that Dimitri hated to admit that Calum Reed was probably right. MI-5 filled a hole for both of them – a fissure that had slowly been widening in Dimitri's heart since the Incident, and a cavern that had never even been filled in Calum's.

Another heavy silence fell between them. Dimitri was reluctant to say anything that might give Calum the satisfaction of thinking (knowing) he was right.

"Look," Calum continued gently, and from the tentativeness on his face, Dimitri immediately knew where this was heading. "She was my friend. My _best _friend. I miss her too."

"Oh, for God's sake, Calum!" Dimitri snapped, irritated by his once-friend's persistence. "She's not dead! She might as well be, but she's not! So there's no need to – !"

"Don't say that."

"What?"

"That she might as well be dead," Calum frowned. "You don't mean that."

"I do. And so does she. They're her words, not mine."

"She's a proud woman. She's just struggling to – "

Dimitri shot dagger eyes at his subordinate, "And what would you know about it? You haven't seen her in God knows how long."

Calum's face hardened. He swallowed then folded his arms protectively across his chest, "She didn't want me there. She made that quite clear."

"Yeah, well guess what? She doesn't want _me_ there either," Dimitri muttered bitterly. "So that goes for both of us."

"But you're her – "

Dimitri had had enough. He turned his back on Calum once more and waved a dismissive hand.

"We're not talking about this anymore. Go do some work. And only come back if it's something relevant to the operation."

He picked up the file and feigned interest in its contents, despite having no room for anything in his mind other than Erin's pain and his dysfunctional personal life. Out of the corner of his eye, he could feel Calum staring.

"So that's it?" the younger man challenged. "We're just going to sweep it under the carpet again; pretend it didn't happen? Not talk about it?"

"There's nothing _to_ talk about," Dimitri ruled. "Erin's gone. It's done. We move on, we find out about these bloody Horsemen and we see if Harry Pearce and Ruth Evershed's intel is good."

Calum snorted, "Come on, Admiral. Wherever Ruth Evershed was concerned, the intel was always good."

"Calum, in case it'd escaped your notice, I'm now your superior," Dimitri growled, not even deigning to look up from his file. "If you call me 'Admiral' one more time, I feel I'm entitled to have you shot."

"_I _feel like that's a teensy bit of an overreaction."

"Not the way I'm feeling today," Dimitri muttered.

And yet, much to his ire, he could _still_ feel Calum's presence lurking in the doorway. He whipped around, intending to give the man a piece of his mind, only to find that he was fully engrossed in his phone. Sometime in the minute since Dimitri had turned away, Calum had managed to retrieve his mobile and appeared to be flicking through his text messages.

"Calum?" Dimitri frowned, perplexed by the other man's sheer lack of courtesy. "Are you for real?"

But Calum didn't seem to be listening. He was far too absorbed in whatever it was that had just popped up on his screen.

"Calum? Seriously?!"

The younger man finally looked up, his eyes round; a tiny, almost imperceptible frown contorting his pale face.

"I've just had a text from Malcolm."

Dimitri's anger evaporated. Malcolm had been staying at a safe house with Harry's family. He had been instructed to communicate only when absolutely necessary. So if he had texted, what did that mean? Had something happened? Had the Horsemen found them?

"And?" he prompted quickly.

"Harry and Ruth have made contact again. A member of the Horsemen found them and they've had to make a dash for it. They're coming back here. They're coming home."

* * *

The journey was long and hard and fraught with tension. As there were no direct flights from Melbourne to London, there had been a brief transfer at Hamad International. Qatar took them far too close to Syria for comfort, and Catherine had been a nervous wreck the entire wait. However, the exchange had gone smoothly and before long, they were back in the air and bound for Heathrow.

Of course, due to the lateness of their booking, claiming four seats on the same row hadn't been an option. However, they had managed to grab two lots of two, and it was decided rather quickly that Harry would sit with Catherine, and Ruth with Lottie. Harry's guilt at leaving her to cope with a six-year-old _alone _on a seventeen hour flight was plain in his face, but Ruth had assured him that it was okay. She didn't mind. She was glad, even. It gave her valuable time to reflect on the whole Kinkaid affair, and ample opportunity to reassure herself that Lottie was still here, with her, safe and sound. She could clearly read the distress in Harry's honeyed orbs, and knew that he was dying to talk to her about the museum. But Ruth wasn't ready for that. Not yet. She knew what he'd say. For all of the mystery and intrigue surrounding Harry Pearce, his reactions were infinitely predictable. He had that telltale softness in his gaze that made her feel rather like a bird with a broken wing; like a fragile china doll that was to be treated with the utmost care. He'd probably tell her that Lottie's brush with Kinkaid wasn't her fault; that she couldn't keep their daughter glued to her side forever, however much she might want to. But Ruth didn't want to be fobbed off with gentle platitudes – not when the awful, gnawing guilt was still so raw; not when the chasm of darkness and self-loathing was still so deep and impregnable. In fact, she'd almost prefer it if Harry shouted at her, swore and cursed her ineptitude as she'd heard him do with so many others in the past.

However, as the flight wore on, the shock and the fear and the overwhelming guilt began to fade, and instead, she was filled with a deep-seated sense of relief. What had happened had shaken her to her core, but actually, she realised she had been lucky. They had all been lucky. Lottie was still here. She was safe and well, albeit rather unhappy and being dragged away from her idyllic life in Beechworth – the only life she had ever known.

The sudden leap into the unknown was understandably terrifying for a child who, for the past five years, had lived comfortably in the knowledge of what each day was going to bring. Now, however, her world had been turned upside down. And so, rather than spending the flight pressing her mother for answers about Catherine and Kinkaid and _why_ they had left – for which Ruth was eternally grateful – she'd asked her about England. What was it like? What would they eat? Where would they stay? What would happen about school? Would she be able to make friends? And the hardest question of all... 'When do we get to go home?'. That had flummoxed Ruth into silence. She'd had absolutely no idea how to answer. She had no clue when or even if they would ever be able to return to Beechworth. And it was a question she'd sooner not answer in the presence of ear-wigging strangers.

In sheer desperation, she'd distracted Lottie with her new Quadratics textbook, and for a good few hours, the little girl had tuned out the horrors of their current calamity and allowed herself to be swept away into the comforting world of Mathematics. Eventually, she'd fallen into a fitful sleep, her head resting lightly against Moo; her book slipping slowly from her fingers. Ruth had caught it before it hit the ground and slid it deftly into her shoulder bag. Then she'd covered Lottie with her coat, nestled down in her seat and watched over her as she slept. She'd reflected on how big her baby had gotten since their last big flight. She'd reflected on how Lottie was losing some of her freckles and how her eyelashes seemed to be growing exponentially day-by-day. She'd reflected on all the questions that Lottie had asked her, and forced herself to remain calm in the face of overwhelming anxiety. After all, she was just as much in the dark about what would happen as Lottie was, and had been unable to give her daughter anything more than bland reassurances. Harry had messaged Malcolm their ETA from Qatar in the hope of him sending someone from Five to greet them. Beyond that, they had no plan.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the plane landed. The moment it touched ground, Ruth moved to rouse Lottie. However, the little girl wouldn't be woken. She groaned, rolled over and snuggled desperately back into her seat. Ruth sighed. Jetlag and an emotionally spent six-year-old were probably an unwise combination, anyway. She'd just carry her. The other passengers left their seats and began shuffling off the plane amidst a general hubbub of noise. Ruth shrugged on her coat, stuffed Moo in her shoulder bag and lifted a sleeping Lottie onto her hip. By the time she had battled her way into the aisle, most of the passengers had gone, including, it seemed, Harry and Catherine.

Thankfully, it didn't take much searching to find them. They were waiting just outside. Harry's eyes lit up as soon as he saw her, and he quickly darted forwards to collect their daughter from her arms; pressing a brief chaste kiss to her cheek as he went.

"Alright?" he asked, concern practically radiating from every pore.

Ruth awarded him a small smile, in part to confirm that, yes, the flight hadn't been a total shambles, but also to reassure him that she felt better now; surer that she wasn't going to fall apart on him just when he needed her to be strong.

"Alright," she agreed, squeezing his arm and hoping he understood.

It seemed he did. He smiled softly, his hazel eyes boring into hers and surreptitiously melting her heart in a way that only Harry could. The moment came to an abrupt end, however, when a sudden loud, pointed cough had them springing apart. Catherine was standing there with her arms folded, unimpressed by the public display of affection and clearly anxious to leave. They couldn't blame her. Standing in full view of CCTV only increased the likelihood of them being found. Their names were now apparently clear in the UK, and thus, they didn't have to worry about hiding from the law anymore. But it had taken Kinkaid next to no time at all to get hold of CCTV footage back in Melbourne. They didn't want to make the same mistake here. Within seconds, Harry's 'Grid-face' had slotted into place, and he was ushering them all towards the exit.

The first thing they saw after leaving the gate was a massive melee of people. Passengers were fighting, pawing, shoving one another in a bid to reach their respective destinations; all with the kind of bold tenacity that only true Londoners possessed. Harry raised a sardonic eyebrow and harrumphed under his breath.

"Welcome home, ladies."

Ruth smiled at his obvious distaste. She patted his arm lightly and cast around for the baggage carousel, spotting it lying only a few feet away. She was about to step forward when something else caught her eye. Or rather _someone_.

It was a man – a middle-aged man with a rather tired face, thinning strawberry-blonde hair, and a distinctive mole beneath his right eye. But his most defining characteristics were his eyes, and the infinite kindness that was present within those rather bewildered orbs.

"Malcolm?" she whispered, her heart leaping.

Harry stopped beside her and blinked, as if unable to quite believe his eyes. Malcolm had already spotted them, and was staring back, equally disbelievingly. It was he who broke the spell first, slowly stepping forward and clasping his hands behind his back with a familiar air of awkwardness. Yet his lips broke out into a small, sincere smile and they were left without any doubt at all that he was happy to see them.

"Hello, my old friends."

* * *

**Many thanks everyone for your support - thanks to wolfdrum, Gregoriana, fcpatechies and Eggwhisker for your reviews. I hope everyone is doing okay and that you're all staying safe and well at this time. All the best x**


	12. Chapter 12: The Return

"Malcolm," Ruth whispered again.

Emotionally frazzled, yet overjoyed to see her old friend standing there after so long, she stepped forward and pulled the older man in for a fierce hug. Malcolm froze, his mouth hanging open in shock. Clearly his bafflement surrounding the fairer sex hadn't lessened over the intervening years. But then his heart seemed to take over and he smiled in earnest, his arms moving to embrace her gently, as a long lost brother might hold one's sibling after a lifetime apart.

"Ruth. You have no idea how glad I am to see you again."

Ruth chuckled wetly into his shoulder, "I suppose we've got to stop meeting like this."

It was a rather lame reference to her previous return to London. He had been the first familiar face she saw in a sea of strangers; the calming presence that soothed her panic and eased the overwhelming guilt she felt at dragging a father and his boy into the mess that was her life. So now she supposed it was rather fitting that it was him who came to their aid now... _now_ when she had an entirely different family in tow, and _now_ when she was fighting an entirely different kind of guilt.

"As long as you're safe and well, we can keep meeting like this however many times it takes," Malcolm told her softly.

Gallant as ever, he pressed a brief, chaste kiss to her cheek, before releasing her. Ruth blushed and patted his arm in thanks. Harry then stepped forward to pay his own respects. He shifted Lottie slightly where she was draped across his shoulder and managed to extend his hand.

"Malcolm."

The former techie shook his proffered hand.

"Harry."

There was a shared intensity within the two men's gazes; a mutual warmth and respect that Ruth couldn't quite pinpoint – and, in fact, didn't want to. It was the understanding of two men who had fought side-by-side for nearly thirty years in the name of King and Country, and one couldn't put a label on that.

"You look good," Harry smiled.

"You look better," Malcolm shrugged. "I take it that wherever you were, it agreed with you."

The reality of their bittersweet reunion came back to haunt Ruth with a harrowing jolt. She remembered their dear little cottage and the Caravan Park; the gorgeous Victoria weather and endless walks along the beach; their happy home and the life they had been forced to leave behind, and her heart ached. Perhaps Harry's did too, because even his smile faded.

"Yes. Yes, it did, rather."

Malcolm seemed to sense the rawness of the subject and quickly turned his attention to the tiny girl nestled in Harry's arms.

"And this is little Charlotte," he marvelled. "Or should I call her Joanna?"

"Neither," Harry admitted. "The passports you gave us were excellent, but we could never quite bring ourselves to call her Joanna. And Charlotte was far too dangerous."

If Malcolm was disgruntled by any of this, he didn't show it. He simply continued to smile at the sleeping child, "So what should I call her?"

"Lottie," Ruth answered softly, reaching out to smooth over her baby's mussed-up hair. "We call her Lottie."

"She's gorgeous."

"She is," Ruth agreed, her heart swelling as she gazed into the little girl's peaceful face.

"She's so big and yet... so much smaller than I imagined," Malcolm mused, still staring intently at the six-year old, a mix of wonder and tenderness in his aging face.

"She's always been small for her age – much to her annoyance. But she _is_ growing. Bit by bit."

"She looks like you, Ruth."

Ruth couldn't really think of anything to say to that, so she just ducked her head with a bashful smile

"I regretted never seeing her before you left," Malcolm confessed, a far-off look in his misty eyes. "I regretted never seeing the both of you off, actually."

"Malcolm, what you did saved our lives," Harry told him quietly. "It's thanks to you that we were able to escape... that we got to live out six years of anonymity – "

"Yeah, about that..." Catherine interjected loudly, stepping forwards from her spot behind Harry.

She had been largely forgotten during the happy reunion, and had had to watch as the three old friends fawned over Harry's youngest child. Her face was hard with abject jealousy, but the way she was clutching her arms tightly around her middle betrayed just how insecure she actually was. She was the spare puzzle piece that didn't seem to fit; the symbol in an equation that just didn't work with her in it. Or at least, Ruth thought sadly, observing the hurt in the younger woman's face, that's what Catherine clearly thought.

"Catherine," Malcolm shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot as he realised that he was probably about to be bombarded by the fiery blonde's ire.

"Uncle Malcolm," Catherine greeted curtly. "I've got a bone to pick with you."

"Catherine..." Harry warned.

Catherine pointedly ignored him, walking right up to the gentle ex-spook and stopping mere inches from his face.

"Uncle Malcolm who was always there for us after dad 'died'," the younger woman recounted sarcastically. "Uncle Malcolm who was always a willing ear and a shoulder to cry on in our time of need. Uncle Malcolm who wouldn't let us see dad's body, because it would be too gruesome for us to bear. Uncle Malcolm who was kind and decent and... what am I forgetting? Oh, yeah. A _liar_!"

"Drop it, Catherine," Harry said sharply, stepping forwards and placing a warning hand on her shoulder. "We've been through this. It wasn't Malcolm's fault."

As far as Ruth had noticed, it was the first harsh(ish) word Harry had said to Catherine since their reconciliation. He was fiercely protective of his daughter, but he also felt responsible for Malcolm. After all, their old friend had dropped everything to come to their aid, both now _and _six years ago. When they were in need, sweet, awkward but unremittingly brave Malcolm was the one to volunteer. That strength of loyalty and the sheer love for one's friends was a very rare gift indeed.

However, rather than heed her father's warning, Catherine's belligerence remained.

"No, I'm going to say my piece," she growled, shrugging the hand off her shoulder and squaring up to the aging ex-spook. "Your leaving might not have been Malcolm's fault, but it was _him _who comforted us at the funeral and it was _him_ who stood there and lied to our faces. He could have chosen to tell us the truth. He could have _chosen _to ignore MI-5 protocol, or whatever it is you call it – but he didn't."

"I was trying to protect your father, Catherine," Malcolm mumbled, surprisingly stout in the face of such bile. "_And_ you and Gray."

"Why should I believe a single thing that comes out of your mouth?"

Harry groaned and raised a hand to his tired eyes. Ruth hovered awkwardly, unsure of whether or not to intervene. She was by no means an expert in the realms of Catherine Townsend, but she _did_ know what it was to put on a show; to reinforce an aching heart with a shell of ice and an almost unwarranted blast of anger. And it was quite clear that Catherine's heart was still hurting from the diet of lies she had been fed over the course of six long, gut-wrenching years.

The argument came to a frosty standstill. Confrontation had never been Malcolm's strong point, and though he had not wilted under the strain of Catherine's accusations, it was clear he was uncomfortable. Harry's gaze was flickering between his old friend and his daughter, his expression more than a little lost. To add to his woes, he kept readjusting Lottie against his shoulder, wincing every so often and clearly feeling the weight of their six-year-old in his aching back. Ruth took pity on the lot of them – even the mutinous Catherine – and decided that it would have to be her that took control.

"Malcolm," she called, stepping calmly into the fray. "Did you bring your car?"

A flicker of surprise passed across Malcolm's face, swiftly followed by relief. He heaved a little sigh and smiled gratefully down at her.

"Er... yes. Yes, I'm under orders from Dimitri to take you straight to the Grid."

"Dimitri?" Ruth felt her heart soar once more. "Levendis?"

"The man himself. He's Head of Section D now."

Ruth smiled, inexplicably glad to hear that Dimitri Levendis had made it through six more years at Five – and had risen into a position of seniority, no less! Six years was a massive achievement in his line of work, and was no doubt a testament to his strength of mind, character and talent. Harry had always predicted that the young man would go far, and whilst of course agreeing, a small part of Ruth had always wondered: at what cost?

"He's alright, then?" she asked.

Her question was met with stony silence, and a frankly disturbing lack of eye contact from Malcolm.

"Malcolm?"

"Let's... let's get you to the Grid."

"Malcolm what's – ?" she pressed fearfully, feeling her stomach tighten because, oh God, what now? What had happened? But before she could even finish her sentence, Malcolm quickly shook his head and shuffled past her towards the baggage carousel.

"Come on. We'd better get your bags."

His tone was kind, but clipped, and it was clear he had no wish to discuss whatever had happened to Dimitri Levendis in the middle of Heathrow Airport. Or indeed, at all. Perhaps he thought it wasn't his story to tell. He had learnt his lesson regarding office gossip after inadvertently sending Harry and Ruth off on opposite trajectories all those years ago. According to Harry, he'd never condoned or listened to idle chatter since.

It was an admirable stance to take, but it did nothing to ease Ruth's worry. She bit her lip and glanced up at Harry, who also seemed troubled by Malcolm's evasiveness. Their eyes met, both silently communicating their concern. Then Harry flashed her a sympathetic grimace, whispered a soft, "Come on, sweetheart," before trudging off towards the carousel. Catherine marched wordlessly after him. Sighing and trying to ignore the sickening dread bubbling low in her stomach, Ruth had no option but to follow.

* * *

"Yo, Cal! You up for the pub later?" Bart demanded, strolling over to his friend's desk and plonking himself down with a heavy thud.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Calum heard him, but he was far too busy watching the pods to really process tangible words. He was supposed to be collating information for the afternoon briefing, but that was proving rather difficult when all he could think about was Harry and Ruth's impending arrival. Malcolm had texted him from the airport telling him that he had the 'package' and that they were on their way. So now, he was waiting with an eagerness he couldn't quite understand, to watch Mama, Papa (and apparently Baby) Bear step through the pods for the first time in over six years.

He wasn't even sure why he was so invested in this. Dimitri had always been closest to them. However Dimitri wasn't the same man Harry and Ruth had left behind six years ago. At least to the naked eye, the Admiral seemed to be treating their arrival like it was part of a routine operation; like they were just a couple of ordinary assets as opposed to two old friends that had sacrificed everything to save him. It was a strange reaction and it confused the heck out of him, but then a lot of things about Dimitri confused him these days. And it made his life a lot less stressful to avoid dwelling on it. So instead, Calum chose to dwell on the impending arrival; all the while nursing a fool's hope that maybe, just maybe, Harry and Ruth might be able to trigger a spark of the old DImitri, rather than the shell of the man that was currently pacing the polished floors of his office.

"Oi! Calum!" Bart called, a little louder than before. "I said, are you up for the pub later on?"

"Hm?" Calum muttered absently. "Oh. Er... yeah, sure."

He was so focused on the pods that he didn't notice Bart's eyes narrow; nor did he see the slow, sneaky smile that spread across his face.

"Cool. So you'll be buying us all a round then, yeah?"

"Yeah... yeah, totally..."

"And then I was thinking we could all play some strip poker."

"Sounds great."

"Perhaps a ménage à trios in the loos mid-game?"

"Sure."

"And then maybe we could either set fire to a skip or rob a bank?"

"Yeah, maybe."

Calum had more or less completely tuned out at this point and didn't notice Bart roll his eyes. He did, however, notice the hand that was suddenly waved in front of his face.

"Earth to Calum!"

Calum jumped and finally, _finally_ tore his gaze away from the pods. He did a little double-take because he hadn't expected to see Bart lounging across his desk, a smug smile playing across his lips and his shoulders shaking with poorly restrained laughter.

"What?" he blinked, bewildered.

"Do you have _any _idea what I just said?"

Calum hesitated. Now that he thought about it, all of Bart's words seemed to have just melded into one long stream of sound.

"Er..."

"Let me refresh your memory," Bart smirked. "So far you've agreed to buy us all a round, play strip poker, partake in a ménage à trios, set fire to a skip and rob a bank."

Calum reared back, thoroughly confused, "_What?!_"

"Don't worry, I won't hold you to the ménage à trios."

"_What_ ménage à trios?"

"The ménage à trios you just agreed to."

"Can we please stop saying 'ménage à trios'?" Calum grumbled, flushing red at some of the strange looks they were garnering.

Bart's smirk grew wickeder, "Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"Just a tad, yeah."

"Aw, come on, Cal. You're no monk. There was that girl from Section A, only last month. And I've heard she's into some pretty kinky stuff."

"Can we _not_ talk about my love life, right now?" Calum hissed.

He exhaled a long, slow and steady breath to calm himself. He liked to think of himself as a pretty light-hearted guy. But time and his experiences in the field had mellowed him. He didn't find things as funny as he once might have. And their contrast in humours wasn't Bart's fault. Bart had never been on the front line of it all. He was, in many respects, naive and untainted. He had always been safe in the confines of Thames House, running errands and making copious amounts of tea; all the while blissfully unaware of the horrors that his colleagues were facing.

Bart must have noticed the tension in his face because his amusement quickly faded. Instead, his face showed great sympathy, his eyebrows settling into a softer, kinder frown, "You're really wound up about them coming back, aren't you?"

Calum tutted. The sincerity in Bart's gaze made him feel rather guilty for snapping.

"I'm not wound up," he confessed. "Really. I'm glad they're back – safe and well and in one piece. It's more than I can say for a lot of us."

His mind drifted to a certain brunette who had been chewed up and spat back out by the service. Then he shook his head. No. He wouldn't think about that. He couldn't.

"Well then, what's got you all het up?"

Calum sighed and began twirling his pen through his fingers, just for something to do. Talking was easier when his hands were busy.

"I'm not het up, exactly. I just... I know that seeing them again will stir up a lot of memories. For the Admiral, mainly. I mean... when they were last here, Erin was still..."

He trailed off, unwilling to continue. Thankfully, Bart seemed to understand.

"Erin was still Erin," he finished.

Calum nodded.

"You think Bossman won't be able to handle it?"

"Oh no, I'm positive he can handle it," Calum shrugged. "I just... know it won't be easy. For him, for me, for Harry and Ruth. For any of us."

Bart quirked an astonished eyebrow, "Calum Reed, do I detect a human heart beneath that cocky bravado? Are you, dare I say it, becoming soft in your old age?"

Calum promptly chucked the pen at him. It hit him squarely on the nose.

"OW!"

"It's just a pen, Bart. Get over it."

Bart grumbled under his breath, "Okay, okay! I take it back. You're definitely _not_ becoming soft in your old age."

"Good."

"No, you're becoming a grumpy old sod."

"I always _was_ a grumpy sod. But less of the old, please. How many times do I have to say this? I'm thirty-seven. I'm hardly over the hill!"

"Whatever, Grandpa."

"You're four years younger than me!"

"That's four years younger than you'll ever be," Bart countered smugly. "Grandpa..."

"Right, that's it..." Calum muttered.

Vowing revenge as he seized a handful of gobstoppers from his desk drawer and hurled them, one after the other, at whatever part of his friend's anatomy he could find. Bart chuckled and ducked out of the way. The sweets were sent scattering across the floor, much to the bewilderment of their younger colleagues. Lena, a twenty-something newbie who'd recently been fast tracked into Section D, nearly jumped out of her skin as a gobstopper landed in her coffee. Calum was about to apologise for startling her when an almighty roar sounded from across the Grid.

"Calum!"

_Oh, shit. _

He froze, his fists curling nervously around the remaining gobstoppers. Dimitri had been a cold fish earlier on. He could be a cold fish at the best of times, these days. But now, Calum seemed to have well and truly awoken the beast. He turned slowly to see the man himself, standing outside his office, arms folded, body tense with stagnant fury. His face could be described in no other terms than: 'thunder personified'.

"Err... " Calum fumbled, trying and failing not to look guilty.

"What do you think you're doing?!" Dimitri growled, marching furiously across the space.

"Err..." Calum glanced down at his hands, before lamely holding out a fistful of sweets. "Gobstopper?"

Dimitri's face turned from red to puce so quickly that Calum feared he might explode – or at least suffer an aneurism.

"Are you _serious_?"

The Section Head's voice was deathly quiet, stifled with a carefully controlled rage. Even so, it was enough to draw the attention of nearby workers, and everyone stopped to watch the show with wide, expectant eyes.

"Err..." Calum mumbled, subdued and very much wishing he could think of something to say other than 'err'.

"Calum, you're an _analyst_. Better still, you're a _Senior Analyst_. 'Senior' being the operative word. You're meant to be setting an example... imparting words of wisdom... or at the very, _very_ least, acting your age. But what do I find you doing? Throwing sweets around like a bloody five-year-old!"

"Dimitri, I – "

"I thought today of _all_ days would mean something to you. That'd you'd pull yourself together, put your head down, work and for a second – just for a _second_ – stop acting like a complete and utter _cock_!"

"I – "

"Have you collated the information I asked for on the Horsemen's Syrian connection?"

"Not quite. I'm nearly – "

"_Nearly's_ not good enough!" Dimitri snapped, his voice crescendoing until more or less the entire Grid had stopped to watch. "What _is_ this? You can't find the time to finish your actual work – work you're paid good money to do. But you _can_ find time to act the fool. Shame on you, Calum Reed! And shame on _me_ for thinking you might actually take this operation seriously!"

Calum's heart hurt at that – yes, literally hurt. Because although he had once been fond of playing the joker, he thought he'd demonstrated himself to be more than that, of late. He put in long hours without objection; he nurtured the younger officers far more than Dimitri himself did, and when it came to this... well... the accusation that he was acting the fool because of one tiny moment in which he allowed himself to feel something other than bloody, gut-wrenching angst was hurtful and humiliating. And it couldn't be further from the truth.

"It was my fault, sir," Bart suddenly spoke up, visibly horrified at watching the chasm deepen between the two former friends. "I was goading him."

Dimitri's thunderous gaze shifted from Calum and landed on Bart in all his mismatched glory. The younger man had a penchant for wearing primary coloured tops with horrendously loud, clashing ties. It was odd how a man who stood out so gloriously always seemed to blend so easily into the crowd.

"Oh, good," Dimitri growled sarcastically. "The-Idiot-Who-Makes-The-Tea. _Also_ not doing what he's paid good money to do."

Bart stared boldly back at him and didn't even miss a beat before replying, "I'm not sure my salary exactly qualifies as good money, sir."

There were a few gasps and titters around the room, for nobody answered a Section Head back like that – a Section Head with a thorn in his paw, no less. Calum simply gaped at Bart, unable to decide if the man was incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. Dimitri himself looked as if he had just been slapped. Yet, as ever, his recovery time was dizzyingly fast and not a beat later, he was squaring himself up to the taller man. It was a rather odd thing to do since Bart was nearly a full head taller than him. Despite Dimitri sweeping the floor with him rank-wise, Bart had the edge in terms of height and weight. Being well over six-foot six and built like a bathtub had its advantages.

"Say that again," Dimitri demanded, his eyes narrowing to mere slits.

"I meant no flippancy, sir. I just said that I'm not sure my salary is particularly good money."

"Then maybe I should help you on your way to getting another job," Dimitri growled.

"No, I like my job, thank you, sir," Bart shrugged, and damn, Calum was envious of how maddeningly calm the other man was remaining. "But if you're talking about firing me, sir, I'm afraid that's not quite your job. I serve the other Sections too, you see. I'm hired by Human Resources."

Dimitri looked as if he'd rather like to say some choice words to Caractacus Bartholomew, but instead, all he said was an acerbic, "Well, maybe I ought to put in a call to Human Resources."

Bart put on his best humble face, "With the greatest respect, sir, I'd like to please ask that you don't. I do good work here, and I'd like to continue to do so. What just happened with Cal was an error in my judgement and I promise it won't happen again. Please, sir."

Dimitri stared calculatingly at the other man for a moment, as if trying to determine whether fun was being poked at his expense. In the end, he seemed satisfied that Bart was not being intentionally insubordinate. He stepped back and regarded the two men coldly.

"I suggest that the both of you get on with what you're supposed to be doing and stop making an exhibition of yourselves. Next time, I won't be so lenient."

Bart didn't need to be told twice. He offered Calum a wary grimace before scurrying away to collect sandwich orders. Dimitri stole a glance round at the rest of the Grid, suddenly realising that the display had been watched by nearly all of his employees.

"That goes for the rest of you too."

Every officer immediately rushed to return to their tasks, and as the general hubbub of the Grid resumed, Dimitri glared down at his once-friend.

"I won't warn you again, Calum," he muttered, before turning on his heel and making off towards his office.

Calum would gladly have let him go, but it was at that moment that a flurry of movement caught his eye. A movement coming from the direction of the pods. He peered over and damn... he swore he felt his heart stop.

"Dimitri..." he croaked.

"Not interested, Calum!"

He could hear Dimitri's footsteps fading fast behind him.

"No. Really. _Dimitri_..."

The footsteps stopped. Perhaps the Section Head had detected the tremble in Calum's voice. Perhaps he'd already gone; disappeared into the safe confines of his office. Or perhaps he'd turned and seen what all the commotion was. Calum didn't know. He didn't bother to find out, because his attention was focused entirely on the cluster of people currently stumbling through the pods.

"Mama and Papa Bear..."

* * *

**A short one by my standards and a bit of a filler really, but I hope people still enjoyed it. I'm trying to get back into the flow of updating weekly so here's this week's entry. For those who don't remember or haven't read this story's prequel 'All We Were and All We Are', Bart (Caractacus Bartholomew, or The-Idiot-Who-Makes-the-Tea as he was known throughout) was introduced properly in the penultimate chapter, with a view to expanding his role in this story.**

**Thank you wolfdrum and Gregoriana for your lovely reviews. As always, I really appreciate your support. Keep staying safe everybody x**


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